


Puppy Love

by StarlightAndFireflies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Animal Abuse, Friendship, Gen, Hound of the Bad-Guy-Ville, I almost named this story with a pun, I couldn't do that to the world, Mystery, Past Abuse, Protective Sherlock, Redbeard mention, Sherlock is a dog person, adorable puppy, but the world wasn't ready for that, not by our boys of course, of the dog obviously, possible trigger, referenced abuse, see what I mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-25 21:17:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4976875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAndFireflies/pseuds/StarlightAndFireflies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock brings home a small dog, but not everything is as it seems. Soon secrets from the dog's past emerge, pulling the two flatmates into danger in order to save her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_John.  
_

_John.  
_

_John._

_John.  
_

_John._

**WHAT?! I'm at work for a bit longer. This better be an emergency you're texting me about. Though if that is the case, why you didn't just call Lestrade or 999 escapes me.** _  
_

_You aren't allergic to anything, is that correct?  
_

**No I'm not... Why? Sherlock, what potentially toxic experiment did you blow up this time?!**

_Nothing.  
_

**Okay, I'm off work now, heading home. And if I find acid spilled on the floor, or you bleeding onto the sofa, or anything on fire, I'm going to smother you in your sleep.**

_Well, it's a good thing none of that has occurred then.  
_

**Alright, I'm in a cab. So what disaster have you created?**

_I'm wounded that you immediately jump to the worst conclusion, John.  
_

**Most of the time it IS the worst conclusion that's happened.**

**Anyway, what's going on?**

_...I'm hesitant because I worry you'll be angry with me.  
_

**Well, you won't find out until you tell me what's going on, will you?**

_I suppose not.  
_

**Sherlock, just tell me!**

_Never mind, you're five minutes from home. Just come up the stairs and you'll find out.  
_

**Sherlock, why did I ever agree to live with you?**

_This isn't the worst thing I've done and you know it. Besides, you don't even know what this is!  
_

**Well knowing you, it could be that you've started the apocalypse and you'd still expect me to forgive you.**

_But wouldn't you?  
_

**... That's not the point! My point was that you are the only person I could believe started the apocalypse.**

_I'm not sure if I should be flattered or insulted. In any case, you're home now, so shut the landing door before coming into the flat.  
_

**What? Why?**

_Please.  
_

**Okay, fine, but why?**

_Just come up and see. And don't text and climb stairs; it's dangerous.  
_

**I do what I want!**  
  
... John was never ever ever going to tell Sherlock that he tripped on a step two seconds after hitting send, making him almost fall.

He shook his head in frustration after catching himself on the handrail, then stepped onto the landing, shut the door behind him like Mr. Annoyingly Mysterious had ordered him to do, and strode into the sitting room. Alright, so what had Sherlock done this time?

Sudden barking around his ankles made John jump, and, startled, he looked down...

... To lock eyes with the sweetest-looking beagle puppy he had ever seen in his life.

A wide smile spread across his face, and he dropped to his knees to reach for the dog. "Hey there, where did you come from?"

The puppy yelped in what John thought might be fear as he knelt down, and it darted away under the kitchen table, tail between its legs. John frowned in confusion.

"She's a bit skittish."

John stood and found Sherlock perched on his armchair. "I can tell," he chuckled. "So this is the terrible armageddon then?"

Sherlock nodded, smiling. "I found her in an alleyway nearby. She came up to me, as if asking for scraps. It took me nearly half an hour to coax her upstairs, and that was after bribing her with some leftovers."

"Why'd you bring her up here? I wouldn't have thought you would be a dog person." John stepped over and sank into his chair, glancing over his shoulder toward the puppy, who was still crouched under the kitchen table, backed up against one of the legs.

Sherlock was smirking when John looked back at him. "There are still a few mysteries I have kept from you."

"So... you _are_ a dog person," John smiled. "Interesting."

He looked back at the canine in question. "So, what should we do with her? She looks so little, how old is she?"

"I'd estimate about five months. And I think she was dumped, considering how thin she is," Sherlock said, standing and stepping over toward the dog. He knelt down like John had moments ago and held out his hand to her tentatively, beckoning. "And she was abused for the short time she lived in someone's home. No other reason she'd be so skittish. And there's evidence of her left back leg having been broken at some point, but it seems at least one person who knew her cared about her well-being, because there's evidence she was taken to a veterinarian to fix it. Though that brings up the question of why she ended up being dumped, if her owner does care for her. She could have run away from home, but that's unlikely, since she has no collar and the way her fur is flattened slightly around her neck proves she did have a collar until quite recently. She couldn't have taken it off herself, obviously. So, someone removed it for her. And the mud on her paws..." He paused and bent over to examine a clod of dirt on the floor, apparently tracked in by their new arrival. "I'll have to analyze it, but it could pinpoint where she traveled and show us where she came from."

"Oh great, you're deducing canines now," John muttered.

"It's not exactly difficult," Sherlock shrugged. He looked over at John. "In the meantime, she needs food."

John raised his eyebrows. "Okay, so go buy some."

"You know that I can't go to that shop," Sherlock looked away from John and back toward the puppy. "I got banned from there, remember? The asinine chip and pin machine..."

"Yeah, I remember, believe me. But there are other shops in London, Sherlock," John bit back a laugh. "And I always end up being the one getting the shopping. Go yourself for once. Besides, you're the one who brought her to the flat. I'd say that makes her your responsibility until we find out who she really belongs to."

It was a bit risky, giving Sherlock Holmes the responsibility of overseeing the well-being of another living creature, but John was too curious to see how this played out to care. And clandestinely they both knew John would make sure the puppy got fed no matter what anyway.

Sherlock sighed and, with much grumbling and muttering not-so-courteous things under his breath about his flatmate, stood up and left the flat to buy food for the puppy. As soon as the front door shut downstairs, John slid out of his chair onto the floor and tried again to coax their visitor out of hiding.

"Hey, sweetheart," he murmured, trying to approach the small shivering form, still hiding under the kitchen table. "It's alright, I won't hurt you."

She whimpered and scooted farther away from him, tail still tucked firmly between her legs. John sighed and leaned against the back of his chair, still facing her, but deciding not to push it.

She really was an adorable little thing, he thought. Most of her soft-looking body was brown-ish, while her belly was pure white. There was a tuft of white at the tip of her tail, from what he could see of it at least, and her eyes were large and brown and pleading. Yet despite her sweet appearance, everything about her body language and the look in her eyes emanated timidness and fear. She was thin, too thin, for John could see her ribs through her fur. She had either been on her own in the city for days, or she hadn't been fed by her owner. John felt his heart break at the sight. Who could do something like this to such an innocent, sweet animal? Who could hurt her, scare her this badly, and then abandon her?

He sat there, unmoving, for several minutes, watching her watch him. Eventually, she seemed to relax, if only slightly. She lay down and rested her head on her over-sized paws, and her taut tail grew limp. But her large eyes stayed fixed guardedly on him, as if begging him not to come any closer and hurt her.

After about twenty minutes of this vigil, John was starting to get hungry. He didn't want to spook the puppy, though, by moving, especially toward her, so he stayed put. Perhaps she would doze off and then he could make dinner...

It didn't come to that of course. Because in swept the hurricane known as John's flatmate, laden - for once - with shopping bags.

The puppy jumped at the sudden racket and leaped up, barking and growling. She retreated to the corner of the kitchen, her small white teeth bared in what John thought was the most non-threatening look ever to appear on an animal. Oh well, she tried, at least.

Sherlock set down his half-dozen bags and dropped to his knees. John watched in amused surprise as his normally harsh, cold friend smiled at the sight of this small, frightened dog.

"Hello," Sherlock greeted. "It's just me, little one."

She sniffed the air, as if in response, then seemed satisfied. Laying her head back down on her paws, she gave Sherlock an almost approving look, though she still seemed wary of them both. Sherlock sighed in relief and stood back up. He gave John a look that said clearly _oh shut up_.

John grinned. "So you're the dog deductionist _and_ the dog whisperer now, are you? I should get you business cards."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock waved a faintly annoyed hand. "She just remembered me from before. And communicating telepathically with animals is an imperfect and unproven - not to mention absurd - science-"

"Yeah, okay," John cut him off quickly before he could explain to John just how imperfect and unproven and absurd it was. "What is all this? I thought you were just getting her food."

"Well, she will possibly be here for a while, until we can determine her owner's identity. She may as well be comfortable in the meantime." Sherlock bent down and started to remove the contents of the plastic bags. John peered over his shoulder to see what he'd bought. Dog food, good. A small dog bed, okay... Wait. Chew toys, a collar and a leash, treats...?

John bit back a grin. "Sherlock," he said rather incredulously. "You want to keep her, don't you?"

Sherlock looked at him sharply. "What?" he asked, far too innocently.

"You want to keep her," John repeated, nearly giddy from the revelation.

"Don't be an idiot, John," Sherlock snapped, though with much less of his usual fire. "It's tedious. Of course I do not want to keep her."

"I'm not being an idiot. And you _do_ want to keep her. Go on, admit it."

Sherlock's ears reddened a bit. It was all the answer John needed.

"Sherlock," he said, with a touch more seriousness, though he was still trying to keep from grinning broadly. "We have to find out who she belongs to. We can't just take her."

"Yes thank you, John. May I remind you I'm not six years old?"

"Could have fooled me," John chuckled. "But my point is, you can't get your hopes up that we'll be able to keep her. You said yourself, she already has someone who cares about her, whoever took her to the vet for her leg. So we've got to do our best to discover who that is and return her. It may be she was abused at first but then someone else must have started taking care of her. Whatever the case, we need to find answers, so I wouldn't put too much stock in getting to have her live with us."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, though John could see through the ruse of annoyance and indifference. "As I said previously, I don't want to keep her. Dogs are dirty and troublesome. I just think she should be comfortable while she stays here."

He stormed away, leaving the bags and dog care items scattered at John's feet. The bedroom door slammed a few seconds later, and John sighed in exasperation. Sherlock was such a child sometimes.

"You're picking this mess up," he called.

"You're not my mother!"

"Sometimes I may as well be," John muttered to himself, then raised his voice again. "Well, I'm not your housekeeper either!"

"... Go get Mrs. Hudson, then!"


	2. Chapter 2

The next week was an interesting one, to say the least. John made signs with descriptions of the puppy and their contact information, and called a newspaper to put an advertisement in about having found her. He posted the signs where ever he could, and even wrote about the puppy in his blog. Surely someone in London would know of her and contact them, he reckoned.  
  
All the while, John made Sherlock take care of their furry guest, including clean up her messes, as she was not housebroken yet. To make matters even more interesting, she was also terrified of just about everything, from the leash and collar Sherlock had bought her to both John and Sherlock themselves. The only person she would go to without any hesitation at all was Mrs. Hudson. John was amused, however, at her continued reticence to approach Sherlock, mainly because of the consulting detective's badly-disguised chagrin about it.  
  
In the middle of the seventh day of the puppy's stay, Sherlock suddenly emerged from the loo, cursing and chasing a wet ball of fur. John looked up in surprise then started to laugh. Sherlock seemed to have been trying to give their guest a bath, but it also seemed that there was more soap on Sherlock than on the puppy. John watched in amusement while Sherlock dived under the sofa after her and dragged her as gently as he could out from under it. She emerged, yapping and growling indignantly, and smacked her paws against Sherlock's leg in irritation, trying to scratch at him with her small claws. He picked her up and held her close, and despite his angry - and sudsy - expression, kept his touch gentle.  
  
He looked over at John beseechingly. "For _once_ , can you do this? She keeps playing in the mud when I take her outside. This is the third bath I've had to give her, and you know I could be doing much better things with my time."  
  
"Like getting the dog shampoo out of your hair?" John snickered. "You're the one 'she followed home,' remember? So she's your responsibility, not mine. Besides, she hates me. At least she sometimes lets you touch her."  
  
Sherlock groaned in frustration and turned on his heel to try to continue bathing the stubborn pup. John watched with a smirk until his flatmate disappeared into the loo again, then turned back to his laptop. He hadn't checked all day; maybe someone had commented on the blog about her.  
  
However, no one had, and John sighed in relief. He actually liked having the puppy around (who wouldn't?) and truly didn't want to send her back home. Besides, having something to occupy Sherlock that didn't involve a murder or body parts was a nice break in their often-dangerous lives.    
  
Yet while he was entertained by Sherlock's frantic antics to care for her, at the same time John wondered why his flatmate had been so attached to this dog, right from the beginning. It seemed rather out of character, and he pondered at the story behind Sherlock's unexpected affection for the pup.  
  
His phone rang suddenly, so he picked it up and frowned. It wasn't a number he recognized, so maybe, just maybe...  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Hello. Is this John Watson, from the newspaper advertisement?" A deep voice, rather like Sherlock's only more whispery, replied.  
  
"Yes it is, who is this?"  
  
"I'm Vincent. I believe you found my dog."  
  
"Yeah? You're the owner?"  
  
"I think it's the same dog. She's a small beagle, with a bit of white on the end of her tail? And her name is Maggie."  
  
"Sounds like her. Just a minute, I want to make sure."  
  
He stood, still clutching the phone, and headed to the loo. He opened the door and found Sherlock, halfway sitting in the tub, struggling with a wriggly, wet puppy, both of them still covered in bubbles in equal amount.  
  
"Maggie," John called gently, and the dog's ears perked up, her head tilting to look up at John quizzically. He smiled at her, then looked at his flatmate. "Sherlock, we found the owner."  
  
He said into the phone, "Well Vincent, seems like we've got her. Would you like us to bring her to you, or-?"  
  
"No, I live a bit out of your way, but I can come get her on my way home from work. You put your address in that newspaper ad."  
  
"Right, okay great. We'll be here."  
  
"Goodbye then, Watson."  
  
"Bye," John hung up, rather relieved to not have the man's deep voice in his ear any longer. It was just a bit unnerving.  
  
"So the owner is coming later?" If John didn't know better, he'd have thought Sherlock sounded disappointed. But of course that couldn't be, since Sherlock _obviously_ didn't care about this puppy...  
  
"Yeah, his name is Vincent. Said he'd stop by after work. So please try to make sure she's dry before he gets here."  
  
Sherlock glared at him through a layer of suds. "I'm trying to make sure she's clean first. Don't make me think too far ahead."  
  
John smirked and left just as Maggie started to shake water and bubbles off herself. He heard Sherlock cry out in exasperation, and John bit back a laugh. Oh, he would miss little Maggie... She was such great entertainment.  


* * *

  
  
The doorbell rang at about half five, and John hurried downstairs to answer. He opened the door and was faintly startled to see a dark-haired man. He was taller, and much more muscular, than Sherlock. John was slightly intimidated by his size, but Vincent smiled disarmingly and held out his hand.  
  
"Watson," he greeted. "Good to meet you."  
  
"Yeah you too, Vincent," John smiled and shook his hand. The guy seemed friendly enough, despite having a crushing grip. "Well, Maggie's upstairs with my flatmate. Come on up."  
  
Vincent followed John up the stairs, his footfalls surprisingly light. "So," John said cheerfully. "It looks to me like Maggie had her leg broken a while back."  
  
"You a doctor or something?" Vincent asked in his odd whispery voice. "Thought the wife got that fixed up pretty well."  
  
"Well yeah, but I guess not well enough that we couldn't tell," John smiled. "How'd she do it?"  
  
"Fell," Vincent said gruffly. "You know how young dogs are, clumsy."  
  
John nodded, reaching the landing and opening the door. Maggie lay on the sofa, and her eyes flew open wide when she noticed Vincent. The man approached her and scooped her up, ignoring her yelp.  
  
"Hey girl," he greeted, laying a hand firmly on her back. He smiled again at John. "Thanks Watson. Don't know what the wife would have done if you hadn't found her. She's been distraught. What do I owe you for taking care of her?"  
  
John shrugged. "No, it's fine. You don't have to pay anything. It was our pleasure." He thought privately it was worth it just to see the normally-immaculate Sherlock soaked and covered in suds.  
  
Vincent nodded. "Well, thanks then, mate."  
  
John caught movement out of the corner of his eye. "Hey, Sherlock, this is Vincent-"  
  
But Sherlock (now clean and dry again) was standing in the kitchen, doing that thing of his where it looked like he was literally x-raying someone with his eyes. He took in everything about Vincent, gaze lingering on Maggie's unusually quiet and still form in his arms. And it was not a kind or gentle expression Sherlock wore.  
  
John cleared his throat uncomfortably and looked back at Vincent. "Well, I'm glad she found her home," he smiled.  
  
Vincent nodded, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Thanks, Watson, Sherlock. Have a nice day. I'll see myself out mate," he added to John as he turned to leave.  
  
"Alright." John waited for Vincent's light footfalls to fade and for the front door to open and shut again before he turned to Sherlock. "Okay, what is it?"  
  
Sherlock ignored him and raced to the window, throwing back the curtain and looking down at the street below. His eyes narrowed.  
  
"Sherlock," John frowned. "What's your problem?"  
  
But Sherlock continued to ignore him, so after a moment John shrugged and turned to the cardboard box where they kept Maggie's toys and food. "Well, I guess we should find something to do with all these. We can't exactly return them, as they're used. And Vincent didn't seem to want them. Maybe we could donate them to a kennel, or..."  
  
"We need to talk to Lestrade," Sherlock abruptly declared. John looked over at him sharply.  
  
"Why?" He raised an eyebrow as Sherlock rounded on him, with a look in his eyes that John only ever saw when they were talking about someone despicable, like Moriarty. His expression was dark and hard, and honestly rather alarming. John took an involuntary step back. "What's wrong?"  
  
"What's wrong, John," Sherlock growled. "Is that we just handed Maggie over to a murderer."


	3. Chapter 3

"Sherlock, please, tell me what you're talking about," John begged again. "What do you mean, Vincent's a murderer?"  
  
They were sitting in a cab now, after Sherlock had dragged a bewildered John out of the flat. Without his jacket, thank you very much. Not to mention, Sherlock wouldn't tell him where they were going, and John hadn't caught it when he'd told the cabbie. Typical.  
  
"Tell me John," Sherlock said in a soft voice. He pressed his fingertips together under his chin. "What was your initial impression of Vincent? His voice over the phone? What did you think about it?"  
  
"Well, er, I don't know," John stammered. "His voice was kind of creepy I guess. But what does that mean? You can sound creepy too, you know."  
  
Sherlock gave him a sharp look. "Well... anyway," he said after a moment of hesitation. "Is that all you noticed? You observed nothing else about him?"  
  
"I don't know, Sherlock," John sighed. "Maybe he was a little strange but he seemed concerned enough about Maggie. And what makes you think that he's a killer?"  
  
Sherlock didn't reply, looking back out the cab window, and John huffed in exasperation. "Okay, fine, but will you at least tell me where we're going?"  
  
"I told you. We need to talk to Lestrade. I need to ask about recent murders, I need to look at their bodies, I need data."  
  
"But looking at bodies wouldn't involve going to Scotland Yard, it would involve the morgue..."  
  
"We are going to the morgue. I texted Lestrade and told him to meet us there."  
  
John moaned and leaned back against the seat of the cab. "Sherlock, I was planning to relax tonight, not solve a murder that probably didn't even happen."  
  
"Relaxing's boring. And of course the murder happened. Have you ever known me to be wrong about these things?"  
  
John huffed, and was about to give a snarky reply, when something else occurred to him. "Sherlock," he began slowly. "You can't try to frame someone for murder just so we can keep Maggie..."  
  
Sherlock rounded on him, eyes stunned and angry. "You think I'd do that? This isn't about me wanting a dog, it's about solving a murder!"  
  
John held his hands up in surrender, a little alarmed. "Okay, sorry. I'm just confused, and you're not explaining. Can you blame me for asking?"  
  
Sherlock huffed and leaned back against the seat, looking out his window as the buildings streaked by. "No."  
  
He didn't elaborate, and after a few seconds of enduring this sullen silence, John sighed and rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, seriously. What makes you think Vincent's a murderer? What did you deduce about him?"  
  
Sherlock didn't move for several seconds, still staring out the window deep in thought. "His hands," he murmured finally. "Did you notice them?"  
  
"Actually yeah. It's hard not to notice when he's one of those guys who can smash your hand in a second when you greet him and still manage to speak politely."  
  
"Exactly. They were large and strong, and clearly he works with them daily. Maggie was practically swallowed by them, and did you see how she was acting around him? She was tense, and her breathing was shallow."  
  
"So? She's scared of everything. It's how she acted around us when she was first at home... It's how she still acts around me, actually."  
  
"But someone had to _make_ her afraid like that. Dogs aren't born terrified. Nor are people. Someone abused her."  
  
"I'm not denying that. It wasn't necessarily Vincent, though. She could have had an owner before him."  
  
"But as I've already told you, Vincent is a murderer. Therefore, a violent man. Just the sort of person who would think it's alright to beat an innocent animal," he practically spat.  
  
"You still haven't told me how you deduced that he killed someone, you know."  
  
Sherlock shifted slightly, now not simply looking out the window; he was definitely avoiding John's eyes. "It wasn't a deduction exactly," he muttered. "More of an impression combined with an inference."  
  
John raised his eyebrows. "So, it was... a hunch?"  
  
"Please," Sherlock scoffed derisively. "I don't get hunches."  
  
"Yeah you do," John started to smile.  
  
Sherlock gave him a look, so John shut his mouth and looked out his own window. Despite his exasperation with the man sitting next to him, John's thoughts drifted to Maggie. He had to admit he was worried about her. If Sherlock was somehow right, and Vincent really was as dangerous as he said, then their puppy was probably in danger. John thought back to how thin she had been, and how frightened, when Sherlock had first brought her home. Anger shot through him. Vincent had better hope that Sherlock's hunch was wrong, because if it wasn't, John was going to track him down.  


 

* * *

  
  
At the morgue, John leaned against the counter and watched as Sherlock snooped in each and every nook and cranny. He read every report and inspected every body. What he was looking for, John was not entirely sure, but he certainly seemed determined.  
  
"Sherlock," he sighed and crossed his arms. The clock on the wall told him it was nearly seven. "We've been here an hour already. Whatever you're looking for, I think you'd have found it by now."  
  
Lestrade, who was leaning against the wall nearby, nodded. "And what am I doing here anyway?"  
  
"You're here to see I'm right when I find the body. And then you'll go arrest Vincent."  
  
Lestrade gave a long-suffering sigh. "Has it occurred to you he might have just been a bloke who lost his dog?"  
  
Sherlock glared at him. "John expressed a similar opinion before you showed up. And yes, it has occurred to me. However, it is a stupid idea, thus I dismissed it."  
  
"What makes it stupid?"  
  
The consulting detective only rolled his eyes in response, his expression saying something like _why must I have to deal with such imbeciles?_  
  
John was getting more frustrated with each remark Sherlock made, out loud or otherwise. "You know what's really wrong about all this? I'm getting hungry. In a morgue. That is not something that should be happening. Can we please postpone finishing this until tomorrow?"  
  
"No. We aren't leaving until I prove I'm right."  
  
"You might not be right!" John snapped. "You've made mistakes before, Sherlock!"  
  
Pain flashed ever so briefly in Sherlock's eyes, and John also remembered an old woman strapped to a bomb, a young Chinese woman trapped in a museum, and Sherlock's overconfidence that had gotten them both killed. The guilt and upset was there for just an instant, then Sherlock dropped his gaze to the report in his hands. A moment later, he tossed it down with a loud crash.  
  
"Fine!" he cried. "But I'm not wrong, and I'll prove it!"  
  
He stormed out, leaving a rather stunned Lestrade and John behind. They looked at each other as the door banged shut.  
  
"What's gotten into him?" Lestrade asked.  
  
John shook his head, just as much at a loss. "You're asking the wrong person."  
  
"Do you think he could be right, though? That this Vincent bloke really is a murderer?"  
  
They both headed out the door as well, and John shrugged. "He's Sherlock, so I'm inclined to believe him most of the time, but considering the lack of evidence right now... I don't know."  
  
"Well, I'll keep an eye out for suspicious murders for him, but I'm not sure anything will come of this."  
  
"Thanks Greg," John smiled gratefully.  
  
"Keep an eye on him though," Lestrade looked a bit concerned.  
  
"Yeah, always."  
  
They paused outside on the pavement, seeing that Sherlock had apparently left them in the dust. John sighed. He'd make his own way home then...  
  
"Want a ride?" Lestrade asked. "My car is just over there."  
  
Before John could gratefully accept this offer, however, a sleek black car pulled up and stopped as if waiting for him. He recognized it immediately and groaned. Were the brothers Holmes conspiring to keep him from getting dinner?  
  
Lestrade gave him a sympathetic look mixed with faint amusement. Obviously the DI had had his own share of run-ins with (or more accurately, kidnappings at the hands of) Mycroft Holmes. John gave an exasperated sigh and obediently climbed into the car.  
  
"Good evening, John."  
  
John jumped. He hadn't anticipated that Mycroft would actually be in the car; usually John was taken to abandoned buildings of varying levels of creepiness to talk to the man. The car pulled onto the road and John rounded on the elder Holmes.  
  
"Can you not do that?" he asked, crossing his arms. "Your little lurk in the shadows thing?"  
  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I apologize for startling you. Especially since it seems you are in an irritable mood already."  
  
"Yeah, thank your brother for that. What do you want?"  
  
"I cannot simply give a friend of Sherlock's a ride home?"  
  
John chuckled. "You? Do something without an agenda behind it? Inconceivable."  
  
Mycroft sneered. "I'm sorry for my brother's attitude, but I'm not responsible for it."  
  
"I know," John sighed. "But seriously, is there any reason you are feeling supposedly charitable today?"  
  
"I'm aware of your recent house guest."  
  
John smirked. "Of course you are. And actually, she's not our guest anymore. Her owner found us today, so she's home."  
  
"I know that as well."  
  
"So then am I right to assume you also know about Sherlock's hunch?"  
  
"That Vincent Prescott is a murderer?"  
  
John chuckled to himself, wondering why he was still impressed by this family. "Do you have our flat bugged?"  
  
"Don't you think Sherlock would have told you so if I did?"  
  
"That's not an answer."  
  
Mycroft just smiled at him, causing John to silently curse diplomats/spies/whatevers everywhere. "Fine. But what is your interest in all this?"  
  
"I do not have time for such mundane matters as one man and his dog. I do, however, have time for matters that concern my brother's well-being."  
  
John frowned, irritation stalling as those words sunk in. "His well-being? How could this case hurt Sherlock's well-being?"  
  
Mycroft hesitated a long time before answering. "The subject of this case is of a more personal nature than most. There is a chance Sherlock could... go a bit too far in order to solve this."  
  
"What do you mean, 'go a bit too far'? And... 'personal'? How is this personal? He doesn't know Vincent, does he?"  
  
The car slowed to a stop, and John looked out the window to see 221B. He sighed and looked back at Mycroft. "What do you mean?" he repeated.  
  
"I'm certain you will come to understand it."  
  
John rolled his eyes, not bothering to hide it from Mycroft. "Well, thanks for the ride."  
  
"Until next time, John. Please keep an eye on my brother."  
  
"I will," he replied before shutting the door and watching the car drive off. _But not for you_ , he added to himself.


	4. Chapter 4

When John got up the stairs to the flat, he found Sherlock sitting at the table in the kitchen, bent over his microscope. There was what looked like small clumps of dirt in a petri dish under the lens, and next to it were several bottles of the chemicals John never dared touch.  
  
"Thanks for waiting for me," he said as he hung up his jacket. "I really appreciate it."  
  
"Sarcasm does not become you, John. Stop it immediately."  
  
John chuckled derisively. "What, because you're not in the mood for it? I'm not the one who was yelling and throwing things in the morgue."  
  
"Could I have some quiet please?" Sherlock snapped.  
  
John shut his mouth, suddenly feeling guilty for having derided Sherlock all evening. His flatmate had been right earlier; he was rarely wrong about things, and though this may be a hunch - whether Sherlock admitted it or not - John realized he should have given Sherlock the benefit of the doubt. There was nothing Sherlock cared about more than solving cases, and he took it seriously. He wouldn't do something as petty as framing a man for a crime he may not have committed.   
  
John sighed and headed to the fridge, hoping there was something edible inside. There was leftover Indian from a day or so ago, he found to his relief. After he dumped it on a plate and put it in the microwave, he turned to face Sherlock and leaned on the counter.  
  
"So is that the mud from Maggie's paws?" he asked quietly, remembering Sherlock's demand for quiet.  
  
"Yes," Sherlock muttered. "From what I can tell, it's from all over London. She must have been wandering for days before she ended up here."  
  
John frowned. "That's odd."  
  
"How so? Stray dogs wander. That's the point of the term stray."  
  
"No, I know that. It's just strange that it took Vincent so long to get in touch with us. If she was gone for a couple days before you brought her in, and then she was with us a week, that means she would have been missing for... maybe ten days?"  
  
Sherlock's forehead creased. "You're right," he murmured. "Surely he would have noticed her absence."  
  
"Not just him," John added, recalling something Vincent had mentioned when he'd come to take Maggie home. "He has a wife too. He said she was the one who got Maggie's leg fixed, and that she was distraught that she'd gone missing."  
  
Sherlock finally moved his gaze from the microscope's eyepiece to John. "So why didn't she call sooner? Surely she would have been looking in the papers, and you put the advertisement there the second day we had Maggie."  
  
John nodded. "And I put flyers up all over. If she was looking at all, she would have found out where Maggie was a lot quicker."  
  
Sherlock's eyes were shining with enthusiasm. "So now the question is, why did it take so long for them to come get her? The only logical explanation is that they were ignoring the fact that she was missing and were deliberately not looking for her."  
  
John thought for a moment, then shook his head. "That can't be right though, Sherlock. Like I said, Vincent told me his wife was distraught about Maggie being gone. She wouldn't have not looked for her if that really was the case."  
  
"Then the question is this," Sherlock said. "Why did it take ten days for Vincent to come get her?"  
  
John had, shockingly, forgotten about his food, so he had to warm it up again. He stared through the glass at the plate as it rotated slowly while he turned the question over and over in his mind. Inexplicably, the memory of Vincent's hands came to him. Their intense grip around his during the handshake, the way Maggie was basically swallowed up by them.  
  
He turned to face Sherlock again, who was looking at him quizzically, as if he had sensed John's realization. "What is it?"  
  
"Sherlock," John said slowly, the idea solidifying in his mind. "Vincent's wife would have looked for Maggie a lot sooner. But Maggie wasn't found until we'd had her for a week. So doesn't that mean Vincent's wife would have had to be gone this whole time? It's the only way to explain her not looking for her dog."  
  
Sherlock gave him a small smile. "Go on," he prompted, obviously wanted John to finish his deduction.  
  
"Sherlock, I think you're right," he said, this time in a rush. "I think Vincent _is_ a murderer. I think he killed his wife, Katrina, before Maggie ran away."   
  
Sherlock nodded, smiling. "My conclusion as well."  
  
John felt a bit disappointed. "Don't tell me that's what you've been thinking all along!" he protested bitterly. "I felt clever for a moment!"  
  
"Don't worry," Sherlock smirked in an annoyingly smug way. "You reached the conclusion only a few minutes or so after I did. But you looked so proud, I wanted to let you say it."  
  
John set his food on the table and glared. "Git."  
  
"It wasn't bad, John," Sherlock turned back to the microscope and the dirt. "It was actually an adequate line of reasoning you followed to that conclusion. You are improving, if... very slowly."  
  
John chuckled. "Wow, thanks." He dug into his food a bit more aggressively than was necessary.  
  
Sherlock smiled. "I told you so. I told you he was a murderer."  
  
John gave him a sharp look, though they both knew his heart wasn't in it. "Yeah, yeah."  
  
Sherlock shifted on his seat, eyes turning thoughtful. "So. How do we prove it?"  
  
John shrugged and quickly swallowed his mouthful. "We don't actually have evidence. We can't just go have Lestrade arrest him. Besides, we obviously don't have a body either, since we just got back from the morgue."  
  
"That doesn't mean there isn't a body somewhere," Sherlock's fingers seemed to subconsciously move to his chin. "There are many ways of disposing of bodies."  
  
"Okay that sounded way too sinister for comfort. I'll just assume you're speaking based on knowledge of cases and not from personal experience," John smirked.  
  
"You'll never know," Sherlock replied calmly, without missing a beat. He had barely finished the sentence when his phone rang. He snatched it up and answered before the second ring began. "Sherlock Holmes."  
  
He stood abruptly, rattling the equipment on the table. "What?" He demanded, eyes glinting. "Where? Excellent. John and I will leave now."  
  
He hung up, looking excited. "Come on, that was Lestrade. We have a case. An actually interesting murder too, if you can believe it."  
  
John blinked. "Right now?"  
  
"Yes, right now! Come on," Sherlock was already pulling on his coat. "There's no time to waste."  
  
"Well, you know, Sherlock, the body is going to stay dead. It's not like we've got a time limit." John stood before Sherlock could start dragging him, and cast a rueful farewell glance back at his half-unfinished meal.  
  
"No, but my patience does," Sherlock called from the stairs, which he was already bounding down like an eager puppy. "So come on!"  


 

* * *

  
  
"You got here fast," Lestrade said as Sherlock and John ducked under the police tape.  
  
"I know," John muttered. "He nearly shoved me out the door."  
  
"So what do we have?" Sherlock asked as he approached the body while yanking on gloves and tossing another pair from seemingly nowhere over to John.  
  
They were on the banks of the Thames. It was low tide at the moment, and as John followed Sherlock and Lestrade, he spotted a woman's body on its side. Her skin was ghostly pale under the hastily-erected floodlights, and it looked as if she had been dead for days.  
  
"Dead probably a week," Sherlock estimated, thus confirming John's guess. "Maybe longer. Hard to say, because of the waterlogged nature of the body."  
  
He gestured to John, who knelt down and lifted a lock of her still-wet brown hair from off her neck. "There's bruising here," he announced quietly. "Looks like she was choked to death. Maybe by some sort of cloth? It's a thin band, so from a belt I think, but I'm not sure. Or maybe she was choked then thrown in the water unconscious, and ended up drowning?" He looked up at Sherlock, who was rather impressively silhouetted against the dark night sky above London. "This isn't exactly my area you know. I'm used to working with living people."  
  
"Precisely why you should work with me more," Sherlock returned quietly as he knelt on the other side of the body.  
  
"Like I don't enough?" John murmured, giving him a small smile.  
  
Sherlock scanned the woman's body, eyeing her hands and neck especially. Slowly, he moved to her legs and, more specifically, her feet. John saw him frown and pull out his magnifying glass.  
  
"Got something?" He shifted over, foot slipping a bit on the wet ground.  
  
"See this?" Sherlock asked, pointing. There was another thin band, a bruise-like mark, circling her ankle.  
  
"What is that, a burn or a bruise?"  
  
"A bit of both, I think," Sherlock replied. "From a rope. See the pattern of it?"  
  
"Yeah," John nodded. "So..."  
  
"So she was weighted down," Sherlock met his gaze, giving him a significant look.  
  
John stared back. His lips parted slightly as he realized what Sherlock was implying. "Jesus," he murmured. "Someone tied her to a weight and threw her in?"  
  
"We won't know if she was alive when she was thrown in until an autopsy is done, to see if there's water in her lungs," Sherlock continued after a brief pause. He looked up at Lestrade, who had been hovering nearby silently. "Do we know who she is?"  
  
He shook his head. "No wallet, purse, anything. She's a Jane Doe for now. Maybe you could... I don't know, deduce it?"  
  
"What, deduce her name?" Sherlock scoffed. "I may be brilliant, but I'm not a computer."  
  
"Well, could you tell us anything else?"  
  
Sherlock turned his gaze back to the body. John did as well, eyes drawn to the marks on her neck and ankle. To be killed like that, either choked or drowned... He shuddered mentally. Neither were high on his list of ways to go.  
  
"Clearly someone wanted her to disappear, probably permanently. No other reason she would be weighted down like this. And if it turns out she was choked to death and then disposed of, then she more than likely knew her killer."  
  
"Why do you say that?" Lestrade asked.  
  
Sherlock stood and pulled off the gloves. "Because strangulation is a close and personal way to kill someone. It's not like shooting. You're within the length of their arm to choke someone to death. Either she was stalked or she already knew her killer. Random thrill killings are never this personal. Whoever did this wanted to watch her die up close. And there are defensive wounds on her arms, which means she saw the attack coming."  
  
"So there was a struggle." John rose.  
  
Sherlock nodded. "Which makes this even odder. There were no reports of a disturbance?"  
  
Lestrade shrugged. "Sherlock, it's a big city, and I don't pick up every emergency phone call."  
  
"Well look into it. And wherever she was killed, it can't have been far from the river. It would be nearly impossible to transport a body here from any great distance. The real crime scene is somewhere minutes from the banks of the Thames."  
  
"But Sherlock," John protested. "The rope she was anchored down with obviously got loose somehow. She could have drifted for days! She might not have even been killed in London! How are we supposed to find out who she is?"  
  
"Check into missing persons," Sherlock replied, sounding as if he had been prepared for that question. "Let the media report this. Someone knows who this woman was, and they will help shed light on what happened."  
  
"So you're saying," Lestrade said. "We can't do anything until we find out who she is?"  
  
Sherlock nodded. "But get an autopsy done as quickly as you can. Ask Molly to do it. She's working tomorrow I believe."  
  
He tugged on John's arm. "We have to go see about Vincent now," he murmured in his ear as Lestrade stepped away.  
  
"Wait," John protested as Sherlock pulled away and started off toward the road. "Can we get something to eat first? Before we go... to wherever we're going now?"  
  
"But John," Sherlock sighed, spun on the spot, and looked at him intensely. "Murder."  
  
"But Sherlock," John mimicked his tone. "Starvation. You interrupted my already late meal, remember?"  
  
Sherlock considered for a moment, apparently weighing the time it would take to get food against John complaining for the rest of the night. "Fine," he gave in, rolling his eyes. "I'll buy you fish and chips. Happy?"


	5. Chapter 5

"Sherlock, we should not be doing this," John hissed, trying to eat his chips without crinkling the paper too much. "This isn't legal. How do you even know this is the right place?"   
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and strode to the door of what he claimed to be Vincent's flat. "I might have done some internet research. It's his. His flat is the one on the ground floor."  
  
"When did you do this research?"  
  
"In the cab on the way to see Jane Doe's body. Now quiet."  
  
John sighed. "What exactly are we doing here? If you want me to be quiet, tell me what's going on."  
  
Sherlock looked up at him, exasperated. "Isn't it obvious? We're going to find evidence that proves Vincent is a killer."  
  
He knelt down and pulled out a small black bag. Inside, John saw what were unmistakably lock-picking tools. He watched incredulously as Sherlock inserted one of the tools into the keyhole, shifting it.  
  
Abruptly, something Mycroft had said rushed back to him. _"There is a chance Sherlock could... go a bit too far in order to solve this."_  
  
John bent down and snatched the lock-picking kit just as Sherlock was about to reach for it again to retrieve another tool. The detective looked up at him sharply. "John," he glared. "What are you doing?"  
  
"I should ask you the same thing. This isn't the way to solve crimes, Sherlock. We don't have any evidence at all, just theories. We don't have probable cause or a warrant. We can't do this."  
  
"But if we do, we will have evidence," Sherlock made a grab for the kit. "Don't be an idiot, John."  
  
"I'm not the one being an idiot," John replied. "Let's go. Let's investigate this properly. I shouldn't have even let us come here."  
  
"John, if Vincent killed someone and is getting away with that, we have to catch him. And Maggie's in there, don't you care about her?"  
  
"Of course I do, but we aren't going to help her by getting arrested for-"  
  
Glass shattered in the window next to the door, a shotgun blast having blown it apart. John felt fiery pain jolt through his leg, and he cried out in pain, stumbling.  
  
Almost immediately, Sherlock put his hand over John's mouth, just as Vincent bellowed. "Who's there?" The man's loud voice was a shocking change from the whispery voice he'd used when John had met him. "Get off my property!"  
  
The door flew open, and John felt Sherlock grab his arm and drag him upright from where he had fallen. The shotgun went off again, and John forced himself to run through the stinging in his leg. Above the sounds of the gun, Vincent's yells and their frantic footfalls, he thought he heard a small dog barking frantically.  
  
They kept running until they were a street away, where they ducked into an alley. John slid down the wall, gasping. He looked up at Sherlock and glared.  
  
"Thanks for that," he spat.  
  
But Sherlock had dropped to his knees, hands on John's leg. "I-I'm sorry," he stammered. "Are you alright?"  
  
John looked down, seeing a rip in his jeans on the outer side of his thigh. It was still stinging, but as he gently touched the wound, he felt nothing more than a gash. "It's just a graze," he said, though a bit shakily. "Superficial. I'm fine. It startled me more than anything."  
  
Irritation jolted through him again. "Alright, what the hell was that?" he asked. "That wasn't us gathering evidence! That was us almost dying! Like that got us any closer to getting Vincent locked up! And like I needed to get shot at again!"  
  
Sherlock pressed his lips together. "I misjudged his aggression."  
  
"Don't make excuses," John snapped. "This is your fault. I was trying to get you to leave, but no, you always know best." He threw his hands in the air. "And, on top of everything, _I lost my fish and chips_."  
  
Sherlock bit back a slight grin. "You are ridiculous."  
  
He stood and offered John a hand to help him up, but John ignored him pointedly and stood up on his own, bracing himself on the wall. "Don't try to just laugh this off," he said as he started to limp down the pavement. "This is not how you should investigate a murder, Sherlock, and you know it. And now we've probably got police on the way, who last time I checked, won't think that trying to break in to someone's house is acceptable. Or funny."  
  
Sherlock followed quietly, and when John glanced over at him and saw that the detective looked a bit like a kicked puppy. Still, it didn't make John any less annoyed. "I swear, Sherlock, if you end up getting us arrested, I _am_ going to punch you."  
  
"Did you see Maggie?" Sherlock asked suddenly.  
  
Thrown off, John stuttered for a second. "N-no... Why? Did you? Was she there?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock glanced down at the pavement as they walked. "She made it to the doorway. I saw her as we were running away."  
  
"And?" It had sounded like Sherlock had more to say.  
  
"She looked injured, like something was wrong with one of her back legs. What are the odds of that happening so soon after the last time she got injured? Even puppies don't accidentally get hurt that easily. And she had a collar tight around her neck. It appeared that she was chained up, which is probably why she wasn't able to leave the house."  
  
Concern and irritation were fighting for dominance inside John. "Did she look like she was being fed?"  
  
Sherlock shrugged. "I only caught a glimpse."  
  
John slowed to a stop and leaned against a light post. It may have been a minor wound, but his leg still didn't appreciate all this walking, as it was oozing a steady trickle of warm blood down his leg. They needed to find a cab and get home. "Okay, be honest with me." He waited until Sherlock met his eyes. "Is there something about this case you haven't told me? Like why you're so obsessed with it? Or why you were so determined to break into a house for evidence that you ended up getting us shot at?"  
  
Sherlock shifted. His eyes seemed to be on fire under the golden light from the lamppost's glow. "I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
"Don't give me that," John crossed his arms. "Mycroft warned me you might take this too far."  
  
"When did you talk to Mycroft?" Sherlock looked startled.  
  
"After you abandoned me at the morgue," John replied, then frowned. "God, was that just this evening? It feels like I've been awake for days."  
  
"What did he say?" Sherlock asked guardedly. "What did he tell you about this?"

“Not much, to be honest, but-“

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure he was a cryptic fountain of uselessness as always. Still, what did he say?”  
  
John raised his eyebrows. "So there is something? What, do you know Vincent or something?"  
  
"No, I don't. It's just..." Sherlock trailed off, glancing away. "Nothing."  
  
He started away, toward a larger road, where John could see more traffic and - thankfully – a few cabs. "Sherlock..." he sighed, exasperated, as he stood up straight and headed after him.  
  
"I don't want to talk about it."  
  
John fell into step with him as best he could. "Will you eventually? You've got me worried now."  
  
"I thought you were angry at me, not worried about me."  
  
"Well that too."

Sherlock pursed his lips. John stopped again and reached out to grasp his flatmate's arm. "Listen, Sherlock, just promise me you won't try to do anything like this again. We can find evidence the right way, just no more illegal searches or anything like that, alright?" 

"...I promise," Sherlock murmured after a pause.   
  
John nodded; that would have to do for now, though he was going to have to keep a closer eye. He continued walking, and as he did, he glanced over. Sherlock glanced back at him, and John saw a mixture of pain, worry, and anxiety in his expression. It was a look that disappeared quickly though, replaced by his usual cold stoicism. John sighed and let the subject drop for the moment, just wanting to get home and get some sleep finally. It had been a mad evening.  


 

* * *

  
  
In the morning, John staggered down the steps, in desperate need of coffee. Sherlock was already awake and pacing about the sitting room, not that that surprised John in the slightest. They gave each other small nods in greeting, then John turned to the kitchen to wake himself up fully. Caffeine. He needed caffeine... Still, even with that insistent thought in his head, John couldn’t help but glance down at the box of Maggie’s things. He felt a pang in his chest; he hoped she would be alright when all this was over…

Shaking off the painful worries, he grabbed the kettle. Caffeine first, crime-solving later.  
  
Before his coffee was anywhere near finished, however, John was interrupted by a knock on the door. Sherlock stepped over to open it, allowing Lestrade to come in.  
  
"Inspector, have you found anything more on Jane Doe?" Sherlock asked without a real greeting.  
  
"Actually, I'm here about something else." The DI crossed his arms and looked accusingly at Sherlock, who stopped his just-resumed pacing under the other man's stern gaze.  
  
"What?" he asked.  
  
"I got a report about a disturbance at a house near the Thames."  
  
Sherlock's eyes lit up. "The crime scene? Where is-?"  
  
"Not the crime scene," Lestrade cut him off. "Two blokes tried to break into someone's ground floor flat last night, but they got away before anyone could apprehend them. One of them might have gotten wounded, though. He had blond hair and was a bit shorter than average," Lestrade shot a pointed glance over at John, who quickly busied himself with the coffee again.  
  
"Please," Sherlock scoffed. "What would I do with that description? It could be a description of John, for the love of-!"  
  
"It _was_ a description of John, you git!" Lestrade snapped. "It was that Vincent bloke, so _he knew exactly who you were_. He recognized you two as you ran off, and he described you both to a t! So you had better have a good excuse for this before I take you down to Scotland Yard for attempted burglary!"  
  
John sighed, running his hand down his face. "We were looking for evidence of a murder," he admitted. "Not the Jane Doe case, another one. A private one," he added, with a glance at Sherlock, who nodded subtly at him.  
  
"And the only person who was hurt was John when Vincent started shooting at us," Sherlock added testily, crossing his arms. He looked as if he hadn't slept, and he was still wearing the now somewhat-wrinkled clothes he had been wearing yesterday.  
  
"I'm fine," John said quickly when Lestrade glanced at him again. "It was just a graze."  
  
Lestrade looked exasperated. "Well, it's a good thing the guy decided not to press charges because you didn't technically harm anything. But Sherlock," he said sternly, turning. "If you do this again, you'll lose your ability to consult with Scotland Yard. The chief superintendent already doesn't approve of you, so you really don't want to give him another reason to want to fire you. So stay away from people's houses, and solve your private case the right way. Are we clear?"  
  
Sherlock nodded, scowling. "Fine," he muttered, dropping heavily onto the sofa and crossing his arms.  
  
Lestrade had an expression on his face that basically was saying, _what did I do to deserve these idiots?_ He handed a file to John. "Look, we know who our Jane Doe is, and how she died."  
  
Sherlock looked up curiously. "And? Who was she?"  
  
"Katrina Prescott."  
  
"Oh my God," John gasped. Both the others turned to look at him in confusion.  
  
"What?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"Mycroft mentioned yesterday..." John stammered, mind reeling. "Vincent's last name is Prescott."  
  
He opened the file and glanced through it. "She was his wife," he declared.  
  
Sherlock's gaze was like fire when John looked up and met it. "So we're actually working one case, not two," he smirked. "Brilliant."  


 

* * *

  
  
"So let me get this straight," Lestrade said a while later as they stood in Scotland Yard's filing room, all three digging through drawers for anything on Vincent. "The bloke who lost the dog-"  
  
"Maggie," Sherlock interrupted. "And his name is Vincent Prescott."  
  
"-also happens to be the husband of my Jane Doe-"  
  
"Katrina Prescott," Sherlock cut in again.  
  
"-who was murdered a week ago."  
  
"Basically, yeah," John said before Sherlock could speak again. "It explains why neither she nor Vincent came forward to get Maggie when she first got lost. Katrina was dead, and Vincent was probably too busy covering up his wife's murder to worry about his missing puppy. After he got rid of all the evidence, he went looking for her."  
  
"Why would he go looking for the dog? I thought you said he didn't care about her? And-"  
  
Once again, Sherlock spoke up before Lestrade could finish what he was saying. "If I'm right, which of course I am, Vincent abused Katrina and Maggie on a regular basis, which prompted the latter to run away, as dogs are wont to do. But after he disposed of his wife, Vincent again needed something to hurt. It's almost a compulsion with people like him, to wound and terrify the innocents around him," Sherlock was practically spitting when he finished speaking.  
  
"Okay, wait, hold on," Lestrade held up his hands. "You guys are just assuming Vincent is the one who killed his wife. But we don't have any evidence to suggest it."  
  
"Do you have any evidence to deny it, Inspector?"  
  
Lestrade sighed, sounded exasperated beyond measure. "Just because you don't like the guy-"  
  
"For the last time," Sherlock snapped. "I would not frame an innocent man just because I disliked him. And Vincent is not innocent, nor am I framing him."  
  
"Sherlock," John murmured placatingly, worried he would get too angry and get them thrown out. His flatmate met his gaze, then sighed, calming himself. John turned back to Lestrade, who had abandoned his drawer of files. "We don't know for sure if Vincent killed Katrina, but shouldn't you question him anyway? Just find out what he knows about her death?"  
  
"Yeah," Lestrade said. "I was planning on bringing him in today to ask him some questions about his wife. But you guys are not going anywhere near him," he rushed on when Sherlock opened his mouth. "I can't have you in direct contact with this guy after what happened last night."  
  
"But-" both Sherlock and John protested.  
  
"You two are lucky I'm still letting you work this case. So no complaints or appeals," Lestrade said with finality, then he turned and left the room.  
  
"Well, that went well," John muttered after a moment.  
  
Sherlock sighed. "I am a bit surprised he is letting us work this case at all."  
  
"I think he knows we would keep trying to solve it on our own, so letting us stay gives him the ability to keep an eye on us and make sure we don't do something stupid again. Or rather, you do something stupid and I get dragged along with you."  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked as if he was about to rebuke John's last statement, but then his eyes widened, a gleam of triumph in them. "I found them," he pulled out a pair of files and showed the top one to John.  
  
**Vincent Prescott**  
Age 47  
Height 6' 3"  
  
The rest of the file was information on Vincent, but the second file contained a police report. Simultaneously, John and Sherlock leaned in to read it, and John felt a twinge of fear.  
  
"Sherlock..." he whispered. "You have to be kidding."  
  
"If he is innocent, I'm Anderson."


	6. Chapter 6

"So what is our next move?" John asked as he settled into his armchair. "You dragged us out of there pretty abruptly. You didn't even tell Lestrade what's in Vincent's file."  
  
"He doesn't need to know."  
  
John raised his eyebrows. "Sherlock, he is going to question Vincent today. Wouldn't it be useful information for him to know? That Vincent was a suspect in his _own brother's_ murder?"  
  
"Supposed murder, technically," Sherlock corrected as he resumed his pacing from that morning, back and forth in front of John. "They never found Alec Prescott's body."  
  
"How much do you want to bet it ended up at the bottom of the Thames?" John muttered.  
  
Sherlock chuckled humorlessly. "Still, how do we prove Vincent was responsible?"  
  
"Why did we leave Scotland Yard? I want to know what Lestrade learns from Vincent."  
  
"It's not a good place to think. Too much noise, too many people. We can go back later. For now, I need to go over these," Sherlock pulled the files from underneath his coat.  
  
John's jaw dropped open. "You _stole_ those?" he exclaimed. “Won’t Lestrade need them he questions Vincent?”  
  
"I _borrowed_ them," Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Besides, Lestrade has enough to hold Vincent there, considering he fired on us last night in the middle of a residential area. We have plenty of time to peruse these in the meantime.” He held the files up with a small smile.  
  
"What is wrong with you lately?" John cried, feeling suddenly very frustrated with the man standing across from him. "Ever since you met Vincent you've been breaking all the rules, ignoring what Lestrade tells you, and prosecuting Vincent like your life depends on it. And Mycroft warned me something about this case could hurt you. So tell me what's going on, or ... or I won't help you with this case anymore."  
  
Sherlock gave him a faintly perplexed look. "I thought you agreed with me about Vincent."  
  
"I do agree about that, of course I do. But I don't agree with your methods. So be straight with me. What was Mycroft talking about yesterday?"  
  
"We're back to this?" Sherlock sighed. "I told you, I don't want to talk about it."  
  
John propelled himself out of his chair and stared up at Sherlock, determined now to get to the bottom of this worrying behavior. "I don't care. Mycroft said this case could hurt your well-being, and I won't allow that. So for your own good, please, tell me. What is it about this case that has you so loathing Vincent? You've never reacted to another criminal this way. What is it about him that is bothering you so much?"  
  
Sherlock stared back stubbornly for a few moments, then seemed to deflate. He sat down in his armchair and looked up at John, a shadow of vulnerability appearing in his eyes. "It isn't him, it's what he does."  
  
John sat down again as well. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Maggie has been abused, we both know that. It's highly likely it is Vincent who is responsible for that. Yes, I know there isn't yet proof," Sherlock looked as if he was swallowing poison while saying that, and John had to empathize; he wanted Vincent put away as much as Sherlock did. "But I... If it is not Vincent who has hurt Maggie, then I've failed her. If it is not Vincent, then I only have solved Katrina's case. Maggie's abuser will still be out there."  
  
"I understand that you don't want Maggie to be hurt anymore," John said softly. "But why are you so... affected by it? I've never seen you like this."  
  
Sherlock glanced down. He looked more uncomfortable than John had ever seen him; his shoulders were slumped and he was clearly trying to close himself off. John just sat quietly and gave him time to open up again, to realize John wasn't going to leave until he heard what was on Sherlock’s mind.  
  
Finally, Sherlock whispered something, but it was so quiet it was nearly inaudible.  
  
"What?" John asked.  
  
"Redbeard." Sherlock's voice was stronger this time, and he looked up, sadness making his eyes wider and somehow bluer. Suddenly, rather than his indomitable flatmate, John saw a vulnerable child sitting across from him.  
  
"What's Redbeard?"  
  
"That's just what I called him. He was my neighbor's dog years ago. I watched day after day as he was abused and neglected. I was just a kid, but finally I had had enough of watching his suffering, and so I snuck over at night and stole him. My parents made me return him the next morning, of course, because they didn’t believe he was in danger. The owner was smart, and knew how to do damage without leaving any visible signs. But every night after that Redbeard would come over on his own and stay with me in bed. It seems he needed someone as much as I did.  
  
"Eventually, the abuse got so bad and so obvious, and my pleading got so desperate, my parents stepped in and reported our neighbor, even though they were worried about him retaliating. He had always been an aggressive man, and my mother was worried about me and Mycroft if we angered him. But it worked out, and we ended up with Redbeard, though he was older by then. Some of his injuries never healed quite right, and one day we had to put him down because of how much chronic pain he was in. It was merciful, but it took a long time for me to get over it. I felt as if I had failed him. I tried to get him to safety, to make him feel better, but he still died because of his abuser."  
  
"You were just a child, Sherlock," John said quietly, feeling a weight on his heart that hadn't been there a few minutes previously. "It wasn't your responsibility."  
  
"Perhaps not, but I still felt it was. Redbeard trusted and needed me, but I was unable to help him." Sherlock ran his fingers through his already-wild hair, mussing the curls further. "And now there's Maggie. I might be able to help her, but I'm... I'm afraid I will fail her as well."  
  
John shook his head. "No, you won't. You have me now, Sherlock. I won't let Vincent get away with this either. You don't have to do this alone. But we do have to do this the right way. If we push Vincent too hard, make him too angry or nervous, we might lose our chance of helping Maggie entirely. So we have got to solve Katrina's murder legally. Then we can give Maggie the home she deserves."  
  
Sherlock nodded slowly, and John couldn't help but picture him as a little boy, curled up in bed with his only friend, wishing with all his young heart's might that he could save this poor dog. And then his only friend being gone, and Sherlock vowing to never let anyone get that close to him again, to protect himself.  
  
"I know what you're thinking," Sherlock murmured. "That it is a rather Freudian situation. All we need is something traumatic about my mother's life in that story."  
  
John smiled slightly, and watched as Sherlock resumed pacing, the files open on the table. John had never seen his flatmate open up like that, and he realized that Sherlock Holmes was much more vulnerable than anyone ever knew. So John promised himself then and there to never let Sherlock feel like a helpless boy who missed his dog again.


	7. Chapter 7

This time, John actually managed to finish his lunch before Sherlock dragged him back to Scotland Yard. In the cab, John snatched the files from Sherlock and glanced through them. Vincent's brother, Alec, had disappeared seven years ago, but no arrests were made. Vincent was a suspect, but he told the police he was at his then-girlfriend's (Katrina's) flat. She had corroborated his alibi, and since no one found a motive, Alec's abrupt disappearance had gone unexplained and unsolved. In the years since, Vincent had married Katrina, having been freed from the police's suspicions once the investigation was dropped.  
  
"Sherlock," John said quietly. "There doesn't seem to be a motive for Vincent to have killed his brother..."  
  
"Not in the file, no."  
  
"So how do we know-?"  
  
"We don't," Sherlock was speaking almost absentmindedly, his mind clearly only half-listening to what John was saying. "But it is suspicious, is it not, that two people connected to Vincent Prescott both were killed, or probably killed? It does not make him appear any more innocent."  
  
John frowned, thinking. He knew he should shut up and let Sherlock think, but he wanted to figure this out. "Do you think he killed Katrina because she knew the truth about what happened to his brother?"  
  
"Perhaps. But he most certainly killed her because he is a complete-"  
  
"Yeah, okay," John cut Sherlock off before he could offend the cabbie and get them kicked out before they got back to Scotland Yard. "I'm not saying you're wrong to think Vincent is the murderer, I'm just trying to understand the whole picture."  
  
"He might not have needed a motive. Some people are just psychopaths, John."  
  
Having no response to that, John fell silent and looked out the window. He wondered if Maggie was alright, if she was afraid, if she was even-  
  
No. He didn't even want to finish that thought. She _was_ alright. She _was_ alive. She _was_ going to be fine.  
  
He suddenly sensed Sherlock's gaze and glanced over. His flatmate's green-gray eyes were solemn, and John felt as if his mind was being read.  
  
"She has to be alright," Sherlock murmured, half to John and half to himself. John just nodded, hoping he was correct.  
  
After a few more minutes of quiet, they arrived at Scotland Yard and raced up toward Lestrade's office. Once they got onto the right floor, they stopped in their tracks, seeing the DI leading Vincent out of the interrogation room and toward the door that led to lockup. John looked at Sherlock and saw his expression harden. Before anyone could speak, John tugged Sherlock away and half-dragged him into Lestrade's office to wait for him there. No need for a confrontation with their suspect.  
  
"What did you learn?" both Sherlock and John asked without preamble the moment Lestrade got into the room.

“The Chief Superintendent wants to have Vincent held. We can’t have him firing guns in the middle of the night. He had that shotgun legally, but he can’t shoot at people like that.”

Sherlock was in the process of a round of rather epic eye-rolling when John looked over. “I’m glad that this finally occurred to someone. John and I could have been killed, after all. Perhaps not all of your sort are dunces like I thought. Still, Inspector, that is not exactly the news John and I are after. What did Vincent tell you about Katrina?”  
  
"He says he doesn't know anything about his wife's death. He claims she went up to Scotland for business and he's been busy with his own work. According to Katrina's boss, she really is supposed to be in Scotland, but no one has heard from her since about a week ago. There is video surveillance of her getting into a cab last Monday, so it seems like she got out of her house alive." The DI shrugged. "I know you want to get this guy, but I don't think he did it."  
  
Sherlock scowled. "Yes, yes, we know your stubborn and baseless opinion. Where does the street camera point?"  
  
"Why does that matter?"  
  
"Just answer me," Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
  
"It faces up the street. So?"  
  
"So is that the only camera?"  
  
"Yes, why-?"  
  
"Because I think Vincent, snuck out of their flat, followed her and then killed her."  
  
"Sherlock..." Lestrade sighed.  
  
"Come on, Greg, give us a chance," John said. "Isn't Vincent a suspect?"  
  
"Not exactly. He claims she left alive, and since we don’t have evidence to suggest otherwise, he isn't under much scrutiny. Well, other than the gun thing.”  
  
Sherlock's eyes gleamed at that. "So if we find evidence to suggest otherwise, would that convince you to let us search his home?"  
  
"I’m not going to let you do it. That’s what the police are for," Lestrade said. "And we can only search if we find probable cause legally, or you do and you manage to fully convince me."  
  
Sherlock scowled at him. "Why are you so determined that Vincent is innocent?"  
  
"Why are you so determined that he is guilty?"  
  
"That's not an answer, Inspector."  
  
"I'm keeping my mind open to the idea that there could be another explanation entirely to Katrina Prescott's murder. Yes, her husband almost certainly abused her, but that does not guarantee his guilt. I’m following protocol, investigating every avenue I can. You, on the other hand, are not. Someone has got to be objective here." Lestrade handed Sherlock a disc. "Look, I may be skeptical, but I'm not going to forbid you from investigating. I've seen you pull plenty of rabbits out of plenty of hats over the years. So if you think you can find the truth..."  
  
Sherlock looked triumphant. "A fine decision, Lestrade."  
  
"Just no breaking the law anymore," the DI added warningly. "I don't want the Chief Superintendent coming down on all of us."  
  
"Have you no faith?" Sherlock smirked, eyeing the disc between his fingers. "Now what is this?"  
  
"The camera feed from the Prescotts’ street from the day Katrina allegedly left for Scotland. Now get to work before I change my mind. I’m having Vincent’s flat searched now, so I’ll let you know what I find." He left then, eyes on the break room and therefore probably the coffee machine, and John looked over at Sherlock, who was still smirking.  
  
He met John's gaze, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "I can practically see your ego growing," John groaned. "Remember why we're doing this, okay? Remember Maggie.”  
  
The smug look faded slightly, and Sherlock nodded. He stepped around Lestrade's desk and slid the disc into the slot. John joined him and they watched as the video loaded, revealing a typical bustling London street. John spotted Katrina Prescott quickly, holding a dark blue travel case and climbing into a cab. The cab drove off and turned the corner. Nothing suspicious happened, and John felt Sherlock's frustration radiating off him like heat.  
  
"So maybe he followed her in another cab, and we just missed it?" He looked at Sherlock as the video played on. "There has to be an explanation."  
  
Sherlock hadn't taken his eyes off the computer screen. He looked intense, focused in a way John rarely saw, even in his remarkable flatmate. His fingers flashed across the keyboard nimbly, and John watched as he replayed Katrina’s departure over and over. Each time, John could find nothing strange with the scene, and despite his conviction, he started to feel doubt enter his mind. Maybe they had been wrong all along. Maybe Vincent was just an alluring suspect because of his previous entanglement with his brother’s disappearance. Maybe they really were on a bit of a vendetta because of Maggie. In fact, they weren’t even sure Maggie was being abused by Vincent; the only evidence John had to that end was what Sherlock had told him. And in truth, even Sherlock could not be certain about all this…

“Sherlock…” John began, hating what he was about to say. “Listen.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock didn’t take his eyes off the screen, watching yet another time as Katrina got into the cab. John hesitated. Sherlock had that look on his face, that not-now-I’m-detecting look. A second later, once the cab turned out of sight again, he glanced up. “What? Don’t tell me you see something I don’t. That would be absurd.”

“No, just...” John looked into Sherlock’s eyes and felt a jolt of pain. Sherlock looked more alive than ever, like he did sometimes on cases like this. It was that appearance that had intrigued John in the beginning, that passion that had prompted him to kill for this man. And considering what Sherlock had told him about Redbeard earlier… Could John really be the one to tell Sherlock to rethink this investigation now? Sherlock trusted few people, and if John told him this case was might not turn out the way he wanted, John felt he was betraying that precious trust.

He took a breath, then smiled disarmingly. “Never mind.”

Sherlock looked faintly perplexed, but turned back to the computer immediately. “I wonder where Lestrade went,” he said as if nothing had happened. “I’d like to watch the recording of Vincent’s interrogation.”

John followed him out of the office, biting his lip. The doubt about Vincent was still there, but now it was coupled with piercing guilt. That video seemed to show there was no way to make a proper case, but John did not want to be the one to tell Sherlock that. Not when the man was doing all this to save a helpless dog.

 

* * *

 

When the interrogation video started, the first thing John noticed was how Vincent’s arms were crossed tightly across his chest. He didn’t move when Lestrade stepped into the interrogation room. The door shut with a solid click behind the DI, who settled into the chair across from Vincent, gazing at him sternly.

“Tell me mate, why did you fire a weapon last night outside your flat?”

“There were trespassers on my property,” Vincent replied, and John shuddered at the return of the whispery voice. “I was within my rights to remove them. And I’ve got a license for that gun.”

“We know that,” Lestrade nodded. “However, you are going to be held in lockup. I suggest you get a lawyer if you want to avoid a minor jail sentence for that. You can’t just shoot at people like that, especially in a residential area.”

“I won’t need a lawyer.” Vincent still was motionless. Only his eyes shifted, from the door to Lestrade and back again. John thought that perhaps his posture and shifting eyes were due to nerves, and though he hoped so, there was still doubt and uncertain in the back of his mind.

“Well, then you should hope someone bails you out then.” Lestrade glanced up as the door opened to reveal a uniformed officer, clutching files. Well, copies of the files Sherlock had stolen. The DI nodded to the officer, who stepped wordlessly out. Vincent’s eyes slid back to Lestrade as the door again clicked shut.

“Where were you at ten in the morning last Monday, when your wife Katrina allegedly left for a business trip to Scotland?” Lestrade asked as he flipped through the first file.

“I already told some Sergeant Donovan all this. I was home. I was alone. She left, and I had a late breakfast. I never work on Mondays, so I always sleep late. The only reason I woke up that day is because she was leaving and woke me.”

“What about from that point to Tuesday evening?”

“What does that matter?”

“Monday morning through Tuesday evening is the time of death window as estimated by the medical examiner after her autopsy. He can’t be more specific because her body sustained damage from being in the Thames for so long.”

Vincent still had not moved. “I went to work on Tuesday, then went to the pub. You can check at both places.”

“You were alone all Monday, Tuesday morning, and Tuesday evening?”

“So?”

“So you have no alibi for those times, times which would have given you plenty of time to kill your wife?”

“She was in Scotland, like I said. I don’t have an alibi because I don’t need one.”

“Unfortunately, you don’t get to make that decision.” Lestrade opened the third file, one John didn’t recognize, and turned it toward Vincent. “I, on the other hand, think you do need one.”

Vincent looked unruffled by whatever was in the file. His dark eyes barely skimmed across it before they were back on Lestrade. “What’s this supposed to be?”

“Your wife’s autopsy report. The medical examiner found evidence of many broken bones, cuts, bruises and other injuries. These injuries were not from her death; she died from a single band being wrapped around her neck and tightened, resulting in suffocation. No, these injuries were inflicted previously. Most of them had healed before her death, some were half-healed, and some were just a day or so old. Combined, all of them point to physical abuse.”

The last two words seemed to hover in the air, and finally Vincent moved. He leaned forward, chest pressed against the edge of the table, hands planted on its surface. His eyes were steady and cold. Another shivering second of silence passed before he breathed, “I did not kill my wife.”

“I think you’ll understand if I don’t take your word for it,” Lestrade said. He pulled a piece of paper from the back of the file. “This is a search warrant for your flat. It gives us the right to scour every inch of it. If we find anything that proves you were abusing Katrina, the last thing you will have to worry about is firing on trespassers. And for now, we’re going to keep you lockup for a few hours, as you are a person of interest in my investigation.”

Vincent’s eyes followed Lestrade as he stood. “You won’t find anything inside or outside my flat. And I know you people have got cameras on every inch of this city, so you will see plainly that my wife left the house, and she was just fine.”

Lestrade did not reply, and Vincent’s eyes narrowed. “I am not a murderer.”

Sherlock reached out and pressed the pause button, freezing the playback on Vincent’s face. He stared at it, glaring. “He must be lying. You saw the look on his face when Lestrade implied he was a spouse abuser. He was uncomfortable. He was evasive. We’re so close, John, I can feel it. He’s worried here, I can tell.”

Before John could even begin considering a reply, Lestrade opened the door and stepped into the room with them. “Sherlock,” he said. “You asked Donovan a few minutes ago to get the video feeds from King’s Cross, right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock ripped his gaze from the screens almost violently. “And?”

“Well I’ve got them in my office now.”

Sherlock nodded then looked at John. “I need to review this again. Go look at the other video. Look for Katrina, not that you’ll find her.”

“You’re trusting me with this?” John was surprised.

“Of course,” Sherlock sat down and spun the chair to face the screens again. “It’s such a simple task, even a child could accomplish it.”

John sighed. “Thanks for the vote of confidence…”

 

* * *

 

A minute later, John, back in Lestrade’s office, zoomed through the first few hours of the King’s Cross feeds for Monday of the previous week. At just after ten in the morning, he paused it. There, on the platform clutching her dark blue travel case, stood Katrina Prescott. John watched, almost not believing it, as a train arrived and she boarded it. He stared as the train then departed a bit later, then sat back. So Katrina had left successfully for Scotland, and there was no sign of Vincent on the platform, or of him leaving his flat at all on the other video feed.

“Well?”

John jumped and looked up almost embarrassedly at Sherlock, who was standing in the doorway. “Um, well.”

“Did you find something?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Sherlock,” John stood as his flatmate stepped around the desk, tilting his head to look at the computer screen. “You aren’t going to want to hear this, but… I don’t think Vincent could have possibly killed Katrina.”

Sherlock’s green-gray eyes narrowed. “No…” he murmured. “That’s impossible. Of course he killed her. You saw how he acted in that tape. We know he abused Katrina. And many abusers often escalate to murder given enough time. Of course he murdered her.”

“She got on a train,” John said. “Look. She left, and I didn’t see Vincent on either video feed. I think you need to admit the possibility that she was killed by someone else. He is a despicable man, I’m not denying that, but the chances that he did this are getting lower and lower.”

“John,” Sherlock growled.

“I told you that you wouldn’t want to hear this,” John sighed. “But I am seriously worried about what this case might do to you. You’re so determined to prove Vincent guilty that you aren’t even seeing any other explanation, even when there’s evidence that Katrina left safely is right in front of you. And you haven’t eaten or slept in at least a day. This case isn’t healthy for you.”

But then betrayal and pain flashed through Sherlock’s eyes. “I thought you believed me,” he said quietly.

“I did, Sherlock, I swear. But now we’ve done some proper investigating, and I’m sorry, but I don’t think your hunch was right after all.”

“I don’t have hunches, John.” Sherlock’s voice had gotten, if possible, even lower.

“A hunch, an inference, I don’t sodding care what you call it!” John felt a bit desperate now. “I think you need to take a step back and be objective for once. Vincent is starting to seem innocent to me.”

Sherlock glanced down at it, then back up. The look that was in his eyes then reminded John of a look in Vincent’s in that interrogation video. “You disappoint me, John.”

“ _I’m_ disappointing? _I’m_ not the one dangerously obsessed with a case. Look, what happened to Redbeard was not your fault, Sherlock, and you don’t have to pay some sort of penance for it. Just let the Vincent angle go, just for a while, and look at some other possibilities. There have to be other explanations, and I know we can find them.”

Sherlock stared at him with those wide, pained, somehow dangerous eyes for a few more seconds, then glanced away and slowly shook his head. When he looked back up, John saw dark determination lacing his countenance. “Fine,” he said nearly inaudibly. “You want me to let go, I will. I’ll let go of the ridiculous notion that you actually trusted me, that you are actually worth trusting.”

John’s heart dropped to his stomach. “Sherlock…”

But Sherlock just turned and left. The door clicked shut behind him with a solid thud, and John felt as if he was falling through the floor.

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes later, John was still sitting in the chair in Lestrade’s office, replaying that conversation with Sherlock in his head. His thoughts were interrupted, however, when Lestrade burst in. “John,” he gasped, looking rather frantic. “Where’s Sherlock?”

“I don’t know... Why? What’s happened?” John sat up, tensing. Something was terribly wrong, he knew it.

“Donovan just went in to check on Vincent in his cell in lockup. He’s been beaten half to death.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know really anything about police procedure in England... I'm sure there are glaring mistakes, and therefore I do apologize.


	8. Chapter 8

John dialed Sherlock's number again, pacing around the room. He was still in Lestrade's office, though he wished he could be with Sherlock, if only to apologize for what had just happened between them.  
  
Not that anyone knew where Sherlock was.  
  
He had apparently left Scotland Yard after his and John's... Discussion? Spat? Well, after their unhappy conversation, anyway. What was strange, Lestrade had said, was that no one had seen him leave, and none of the cameras outside had caught him out on the pavement. So John had to wonder if Sherlock hadn't left when everyone thought he had. What if he had stayed, snuck into lockup, and…  
__  
"This is Sherlock Holmes. Leave a…"  
  
"Dammit!" John cursed. Voice message again. "Sherlock, please answer me. Tell me where you are. I need to talk to you."  
  
It was the fourth message he had left in the space of an hour, though he knew it was highly unlikely Sherlock would answer, or come back to Scotland Yard. Especially if he had been the one who had beaten Vincent like that...  
  
John shuddered. He had caught a glimpse of Vincent's bloodied face when the paramedics had arrived to take him to the hospital. Of course, he was rather used to that sort of sight; he _was_ a doctor. It was just the idea that Sherlock, his best friend, was responsible for it that disturbed him. He couldn't imagine Sherlock doing such a thing.  
  
Except.  
  
Maybe he could, as horrifying a thought as that was. He remembered how fierce Sherlock had looked when he had first seen Vincent, and how intense he had been about this case the whole time. Perhaps it really was possible that Sherlock had reached some sort of breaking point.  
  
"What's wrong?" Lestrade asked, stepping into the room again.  
  
John shook off the worrying thoughts about his flatmate as best he could. "He still isn't answering."  
  
Lestrade sighed. "And Vincent, last I saw when they were putting him in the ambulance, was still unconscious."  
  
"Did you catch anyone suspicious on the security videos? Anyone who could have done this?"  
  
“No, we didn’t. And, of course, the cameras on this floor were turned off today for maintenance.”  
  
John groaned. “Typical. It’s like we’re on some lame cop show.” He ran a hand over his face. “Have your officers come back from Vincent’s flat?”  
  
“Actually, yes. I just finished speaking to them.”  
  
John looked up hopefully. “Tell me they found some miracle evidence to convict Vincent.”  
  
“No such luck, mate, sorry,” Lestrade grimaced. “They didn’t find anything suspicious, or even anything to prove that he abused Katrina. It was a typical London flat. I don’t know what to tell you.”  
  
John frowned. “So do you think Sherlock was wrong all this time?”  
  
Lestrade chuckled. “I was never fully convinced in the first place. But now, I’m almost certain he was wrong. I know you thought otherwise, though…”  
  
“Yeah, up until I saw the CCTV from Vincent’s flat and the train station. Then I really started to doubt it. Sherlock didn’t take that well.”  
  
“Is that why he ran out?” Lestrade asked, a crease in his forehead.  
  
John nodded shamefully. “I think I must have pushed him over the edge. If he’s the one who did this to Vincent, then it’s my fault, isn’t it?”  
  
Lestrade sat down across from him, in his desk chair. “You can’t blame yourself for driving him off like that. And if he did do this,” the DI looked as disgusted by the notion as John felt. “Then it was _his_ decision. You had nothing to do with it.”  
  
John didn’t agree, but he kept his mouth shut. It was futile to debate it now, when they were waiting to hear back from the hospital and from Sherlock. There was no way to close the case until either or both happened.  
  
He frowned. Lestrade’s words were finally sinking in beneath the shock of what had been done to Vincent. The officers had found nothing unusual in their search of the flat? _Nothing_?  
  
“Greg,” John looked up, a minor flash of panic rushing through him. “Your officers didn’t see Maggie, the dog, there? Not anywhere in the flat?”  
  
Lestrade looked startled. “They didn’t say anything about her.”  
  
“Oh God,” John breathed. “If she wasn’t there, that could mean…”  
  
He thought suddenly of Sherlock’s Redbeard, how it had had to be put down because of its wounds from all the time with the abusive owner, and how that had damaged Sherlock for so long. If Maggie had been “put down” by Vincent, it would destroy Sherlock. He wouldn’t be able to bear it if he was proved unable, again, to save a helpless, frightened dog. And John had promised himself he would not let Sherlock be hurt by this like he had been before. But perhaps it was too late. Perhaps they had lost their chance to save Maggie.  
  
John silently cursed. They had become so fixated on solving Katrina’s murder that they both had forgotten the original objective of the case: saving Maggie and getting her away from Vincent. Instead, both he and Sherlock had let themselves be distracted by the more exciting element – Katrina’s murder. And all the while, Maggie, a small innocent puppy who needed them, had been tied up and trapped in that flat. What if she had been starved? Or beaten? Or what if Vincent had just kil-?  
  
Ignoring Lestrade’s concerned look, John grabbed his phone again. Sherlock. He had to make sure Sherlock was alright, because if he somehow found out that it might be too late for Maggie before John could get to him… Then perhaps nothing could stop him from finding Vincent and getting revenge.  
__  
“This is Sherlock Holmes. Leave a message, and do try not to be boring.”  
  
“Sherlock,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. “I need you to answer, please. I’m sorry for what happened between us, but we need to talk. We need to solve the case. I can’t do it without you. So pick up and tell me where you are.”  
  
“John?” Lestrade asked carefully when he hung up. The poor man looked rather confused.  
  
“If they didn’t find Maggie, then I think we might be too late,” John said, while a weight settled onto his heart. “And I’m worried about what Sherlock will do when he finds this out.”  
  
“You think he’d do something? John, you know him.”  
  
“I thought I did. Then he beat a suspect.”  


 

* * *

  
  
The next morning, John was striding down what seemed like the seventeenth street he had seen today, looking for Sherlock. Mycroft had stepped in the previous afternoon with a list of hiding places in which Sherlock might take refuge. His phone was off, and even Mycroft, with all his resources, could not track it in that state. So Lestrade, John, a few officers, and a few mysterious minions of the elder Holmes had spent the next several hours searching in the strangest places for the stubbornly elusive consulting detective. Finally, however, Lestrade had insisted they call off the search for the moment. “Sherlock just needs some time to think,” he had said to a reluctant John. “But call if he comes home.” So John had headed home, waiting up half the night for Sherlock to barge in, the other half worrying about Maggie and the case. Needless to say, it had not been a restful few hours.  
  
When it was light out again, John had resumed his search, determined to find Sherlock wherever he was and get to the bottom of all this. During this search, John had been tempted many times to go to Vincent’s flat, to see for himself if Maggie really was not there. But he stopped himself every time he turned around to go. He didn’t truly want to break into a flat, and after all, the officers Lestrade sent would not have lied about such a thing. If they had not seen her, then Maggie could not be there. Still, the desire to check on his own was still in the front of his thoughts. But again, Maggie was (regrettably) not his priority at the moment; finding Sherlock was.  
  
At the street corner, he checked his phone for what felt like the thousandth time. He had no missed calls, voice messages, or texts. His search had been fruitless, then, and Sherlock was clearly still in no mood to talk to anyone. He shoved the phone in his pocket and kept walking, glancing into every alleyway for a tall, dark, curly-haired figure.  
  
His phone rang suddenly, and he almost jumped out of his skin. “Sherlock?” he cried immediately upon answering.  
  
“Not quite, unfortunately,” Mycroft said.  
  
John sighed. “Any news? Think of any new places to look?”  
  
“I do have news, though probably not the news you were expecting. Inspector Lestrade just called me to inform me that Vincent Prescott is now awake. He is allegedly demanding to speak to you and your troublesome worse half. Lestrade is on the way to the hospital now, and he requested I transport you there as quickly as possible.”  
  
“Alright, yeah, good,” John said, head reeling. What would Vincent possibly want to say to him and Sherlock?  
  
“So stay where you are. A car will arrive at your location in forty-three seconds.” He hung up then, leaving behind a faint ring of melodrama in John’s ear.  
  
It was actually forty-two seconds, by John’s reckoning, and he resisted the urge to text that to Mycroft, if only for his own benefit. He needed a bit of lightheartedness after the tiring morning he had had. Ultimately, however, he decided against it. His curiosity about Vincent was rapidly overruling his lighthearted side, and his detective’s assistant side was rapidly growing stronger. So he climbed into the sleek black towncar without complaint for once, and allowed it to whisk him away.  
  
Halfway to Bart’s, he tried Sherlock’s phone again, and tapped his fingers on his knee through the voice message. “Hey, it’s me again. Vincent’s awake, and he wants to talk to us. So if it isn’t too _inconvenient_ for you, answering my calls would be just great.”  
  
There was no reply, of course, and the rest of the car ride was silent. Then, the looming structure of St. Bart’s rose up above him, and the car rolled to a stop. John made his way into the building, where Lestrade stood waiting for him in the lobby. A few quick words of concern for Sherlock later, they were heading up to Vincent’s room. In spite of the knowledge that Vincent was in no fit state to hurt anyone, John found himself growing ever so slightly nervous to speak to him. He clenched his fists as he walked down the hallway and reminded himself for the millionth time of Maggie’s face, her gentle brown eyes. This was all for her, whether she was alright or not. John owed it to her to get answers. To her, and to Katrina Prescott.  
  
Vincent was heavily bandaged, and a bag full of blood was hanging next to him. Overall, he looked rather pathetic. John felt the faintest twinge of pity at the sight. He brushed it off quickly, though, for the memory of Katrina’s body overshadowed it almost aggressively.  
  
“Watson,” Vincent’s whispery voice sounded hoarse and rough.  
  
“Hello, Vincent.” John stopped halfway between the door and the bed. Lestrade had stayed outside the room, for which John was grateful. “I was told you wanted to speak to me?”  
  
“Where’s your flatmate?”  
  
“Sherlock is busy. He wishes he could be here, though.”  
  
Vincent nodded slightly, though it looked as if the movement caused him some pain. “What do you have to say, Vincent?” John asked, his arms crossing of their own accord.  
  
“I have information you and that Inspector bloke will want to know. But I don’t like that guy, so I’m telling you.”  
  
“Oh, and you like me and _Sherlock Holmes_ more?” John almost laughed. “After we tried to break into your flat, and accused you of murder?”  
  
“You catch murderers and are clever about it, unlike the Scotland Yard goons. Nothing to dislike about that. And right now, that sounds useful.”  
  
This time John did laugh, softly. “Right, because you aren’t a killer. So you have so much respect for us.”  
  
“I’m not a killer.” Vincent’s eyes flashed dangerously, and John shut his mouth, reminding himself who this man really was. _Come on, Watson, don’t provoke the psychopath… Be smart here._  
  
“Right,” he said, though he was not entirely successful in keeping the skepticism out of his tone. “You still haven’t said what you want to tell me. So what is this supposedly valuable information you have?”  
  
“I know who beat me.”  
  
That certainly got John’s attention. He stepped forward. “Who?”  
  
“Probably not who you’re thinking, because it means I am innocent of my wife’s murder. And of whatever else you people suspect me of.” He smirked. “I can tell you’re worried about Holmes,” he said suddenly.  
  
Vincent chose that moment to have a coughing fit, but John wasn’t going to sit around and wait in suspense to learn if his best friend was capable of violence like that. That sudden mention of Sherlock seemed too convenient to be random. Vincent knew something. John took another step forward and leaned over so he was in Vincent’s personal space. The other man stilled and looked up at him, and this time, Vincent’s dangerous look was matched with John’s.  
  
“Vincent, did Sherlock beat you?” The words were out before John could consider them. It was what he truly wanted to know, so his mouth worked on its own.  
  
“No. Why would I ask you both to come if he had?”  
  
“Then who was it? And did you kill Maggie?”  
  
Vincent, having opened his mouth to reply, paused in surprise at that. “Is that what all this is about? The dog?”  
  
“Did you kill her, dammit?”  
  
“Don’t you want to know who beat me?” The glint was back in Vincent’s eyes, and John felt desperate fury rise up in him. He knew now why Sherlock had been so adamant about the man’s guilt. There was something about him that was detestable to the point of being overwhelming. He looked as if he was enjoying teasing emotional reactions out of John; he enjoyed making him angry. It was all a game to him, and even though it had gotten him badly injured like this, he was in his element.  
  
“Did you kill Maggie?” John demanded, feeling his eyes sting. “Did you take that puppy away from us just to keep hurting her? Did she die alone and scared, crying?”  
  
But Vincent was just chuckling, and John had to swallow the itch to reach out and throttle him. “Vincent,” he hissed. “Tell me. Is that how Katrina died too? Alone, terrified, pleading with you, crying? Did you kill her and Maggie the same way?”  
  
The chuckling stopped. Vincent’s eyes darkened. “I did not kill my wife,” he breathed, his warm breath brushing across John’s skin like poison. “You and Holmes have got this all wrong. And it’s going to get him, or both of you, killed.”  
  
“Oh, really?” John said in an equally quiet voice. “Then tell me what really happened, tell me some story about someone breaking in and killing her and then dumping her in the Thames. Tell me you didn’t beat your wife on a regular basis, that you two were happily married. Tell me all this and see how I’ll believe you.”  
  
The glint in Vincent’s eyes shone, slow-burning coals in dark orbs. “I’ll tell you, and when I do, you’ll have no choice but to believe me.” He smirked, that loathsome, self-satisfied smirk. “My brother, Alec. He beat me. _He_ ’s the one you want.”  
  
John didn’t remember moving, but he blinked and suddenly was on the other side of the room. “That is impossible. Alec Prescott was declared dead years ago. He disappeared and hasn’t been seen since, and you were a suspect. It can’t be Alec.”  
  
“And yet,” Vincent whispered. “I’m telling you the truth.”  
  
Confusion ripped through John, shaking him. How was any of this possible?  
  
Before he could again demand explanations out of Vincent, however, his phone rang. Scowling, he seized it. “Hello?”  
  
“John,” Sherlock said. His voice was low and tense, and alarm bells went off in John’s head. “John, it’s me.”  
  
“Sherlock, oh thank… Where are you?”  
  
“That’s the problem. I think we were wrong about Vincent,” he sounded put out, but not as angry as John would have expected.  
  
“Yeah, about that, he just told me something you should know-“  
  
“Yes, lovely, not now though.”  
  
“What? Why not?”  
  
“Because I’m currently trapped in Vincent’s flat, and there’s someone else here with a gun.”  
  
Sherlock cursed softly then, and the call ended. John stared at the phone in horror. When he looked up, the first thing he saw was Vincent, watching him.  
  
“Alec?” John breathed, staring at the man.  
  
“Alec,” he nodded back.  



	9. Chapter 9

John frantically explained the situation to Lestrade as they headed toward Vincent’s flat at the fastest pace they could manage through London traffic. He had no idea what was really going on, but if Vincent had been telling the truth, then the man in the flat with Sherlock was Alec Prescott, somehow alive and apparently well enough to beat his brother half to death. But that made no sense, John thought fleetingly as he half-listened to Lestrade barking at Donovan over the phone, demanding backup be sent to the flat immediately. How was Alec alive? What motive did he have to beat his brother? What was going on here? He sighed. Clearly he and Sherlock did not know enough about his disappearance seven years ago, having only given that case file a cursory glance, simply believing it would give them more ammunition to convict Vincent. They had not thought that there might be another explanation, when clearly there was.  
  
“So tell me again?” Lestrade asked as he hung up the phone.  
  
“Vincent said his brother, Alec, beat him,” John repeated as patiently as he could. “I have no idea why, I should have asked him if he knew… But Sherlock called right then to tell me he was stuck in Vincent’s flat with some man with a gun. I have no idea what’s going on, except that Sherlock is in danger.”  
  
That was indeed all he knew for certain – that Sherlock was in danger – and it was the only thing he could truly focus on. Sherlock, his best friend, the man he had been doubting just a few hours ago, was trapped and unarmed with someone he had no idea how to deal with. John felt his heart hammering desperately in his chest as the buildings of London streaked by. Sherlock just had to hold on for a little while longer, then he and Lestrade and their backup would arrive. He just had to stay hidden.  
  
John took a deep breath. He had no gun, of course, nothing that would help him protect Sherlock. He had hand-to-hand combat experience, yes, but it would be useless against a gunman. Lestrade would be the only one armed.  
  
As if the DI had read his mind, he reached over and opened the glove box. “Don’t tell anyone I let you borrow this,” he said, handing John a handgun. “It’s my backup.”  
  
“Thanks,” John sighed, feeling the weight of it in his hand reassuringly. It wasn’t his own gun, but it wasn’t too dissimilar either. He felt a bit of relief as he ran his finger across the smooth metal.  
  
His phone buzzed.

_I’m in the kitchen. A grand entrance would not go amiss if you’re careful._  
_  
_**If we’re careful it wouldn’t be very grand. _  
  
_**_Shut up. Now is not the time for jokes._ ** _  
  
_ So where is he?  
**_  
In the sitting room. It’s the first room in the flat, so unless you want to startle him by using the front door, I would come in a different way.  
  
_**Can he see to the street from where he is? If you can’t tell from where you are, don’t move. He doesn’t know you’re there, right?** _  
  
Too late; I moved closer. He can see the street, so I suggest you stop a few flats away and come in through the window on the side of the building. I trust Lestrade has called for backup?  
  
_**Yeah, they’re a few minutes behind us. Do you know who it is? _  
  
_**_A_ _lec Prescott. The missing brother. It’s fascinating, really. I am rather tempted to engage him in conversation just to find out what happened to him seven years ago._ ** _  
_  
Don’t you dare. I don’t want you to get killed. _  
  
_**_Have some faith in me._ _  
  
_**I’m serious, Sherlock, don’t do anything! We’re three minutes away. Just make sure the side window is unlocked and stay out of sight**. _  
  
_ The texts stopped coming, so John took the opportunity to fill Lestrade in on the conversation. When they were about half a block away, Lestrade stopped the car, and they hurried toward the flat. John led him to the window Sherlock had mentioned and slowly eased it open. It was an old frame, so he had to take care that it didn’t creak and give them away. Finally, John had lifted the window far enough, and Lestrade slipped inside. John followed, and once he got inside the flat, he froze.  
  
Alec Prescott was standing in the corridor, a gun in his hand like Sherlock had said. His chest was heaving, from what John didn’t know, and at his feet was Sherlock, motionless. A trickle of blood was running down from his curl-covered temple across his pale forehead.  
  
John’s mind, usually so accustomed to seeing injuries and violence from the army and from crime-fighting, seemed to shut down. He had never seen Sherlock look so helpless, and terror felt like ice as it coursed through him. Had Alec killed him? Was he too late again, just as they had been for Maggie and Katrina? Was he too late to save his best friend?  
  
“Alec Prescott,” Lestrade said, authority and confidence in his voice that John could not imagine mustering himself. “Put down your weapon.”  
  
“Who are you?” he asked, voice shaking. His eyes were darting everywhere, and he was still breathing hard. His voice wasn’t quite as deep as his brother’s, though there was something in the shape of the man’s face and the color of his eyes that betrayed their blood ties. “What do you want?”  
  
That question, pitched in a shakier voice than the first, set off alarm bells in John’s mind. There was the slightest tremor of something _not okay_ in this man, like he had reached some sort of break. His wild eyes were still flickering across the room. John glanced down and noticed with a jolt that he had a foot resting on Sherlock’s back.  
  
“I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard,” Lestrade said cautiously. “You’re Alec Prescott, yeah?”  
  
Alec nodded with a gulp. “What do you want?”  
  
Lestrade glanced peripherally at John, who gave him a warning look in return. Something was going on here, and John knew they had to be careful, especially while Alec was so close to Sherlock. “We just want to talk to you, that’s all,” Lestrade replied, looking back at Alec. “So why don’t we all put our guns down?”  
  
“No,” was Alec’s instant reply, his voice barely a step from hysterical. “He’ll come if I put the gun down.”  
  
“Who will? Who are you afraid of?”  
  
“Him!” Alec cried, gesturing with the gun at a picture on the mantelpiece across the room. Vincent and Katrina, standing on a beach. “He’ll find me.”  
  
“Vincent can’t hurt you right now, Alec.” Lestrade sounded completely out of his element, facing this rather crazed man. “Just put the gun down and talk to me.”  
  
Alec barely looked at him, just stood there breathing hard as if he had been chased here. His foot shifted slightly on Sherlock’s back, and John saw his flatmate twitch ever so slightly. Without thinking, John took a small step forward. Sherlock was alive. John had to get him out of this.  
  
“Alec,” he began, voice calm. “My name is John. DI Lestrade and I are here to help, okay? Do you want to tell me what happened involving your brother?”  
  
The other man swallowed and fixed his eyes on him. A few seconds of silence passed, but then he sighed and blinked a few times, composing himself. “He killed me.”  
  
“What do you mean?” John tried to keep the bewilderment out of his words.  
  
“He drove me away. He threatened to kill me if I told anyone… I had to get out. He made me end my life…”  
  
“If you told anyone what?” John coaxed.  
  
Alec took another shaky breath, the gun rattling slightly in his hand. “About what he was doing to her. But I had to say something to at least _him_ , right? I couldn’t let him hurt her, she was my friend! I introduced them, so that makes it my fault, right?”  
  
“Alec,” John said, lowering his gun and raising his empty hand appealingly. “Who was he hurting? I need you to tell me exactly what you mean.”  
  
“Kat!” he cried. “Katrina! She was my friend, and he was hurting her! I knew it, even if she wouldn’t tell me! I knew it, and I didn’t stop it!”  
  
“He was abusing her?” John said. “But that wasn’t your fault.”  
  
“But I should have stopped him. I should have called the police, done something, anything.” Alec was back to looking around the room as if lost, or seeing things. His breathing was still shallow and rapid. He seemed on the verge of hysteria, if he was not there already. “But instead I ran away. He told me to, so I did. He always knew how to control people… even her.”  
  
“What happened then, Alec? Is that why you disappeared?” John felt a slight trill go through him. So close to the truth, he felt it.  
  
“I disappeared, went to Scotland,” he stammered. “Kat… Katrina, she told me to go, that it was okay, that she would be okay. She said she could take care of herself, and I believed her.” Alec was shifting his weight almost violently from one foot to the other, and John saw Sherlock’s mouth contract each time he pressed down. “She was smart, and I believed her like an idiot.”  
  
“So what did you do?”  
  
“We kept in touch secretly, all this time.” Alec had stopped looking at John, and was instead staring into space toward the corner of the room. “She came to see me a week ago, during a business trip. But she… she didn’t want me…”  
  
“What do you mean, she didn’t want you?”  
  
“All those years,” Alec half-sobbed. “I loved her, I wanted to protect her, and I fell in love with her. But she said she couldn’t leave Vincent. She was scared of him, I know it. But after everything I had done for her… She still didn’t want me. She was going to stay with him, and I couldn’t… couldn’t let her…”  
  
Realization washed over John. “Did you kill her?”  
  
“I didn’t mean to!” Alec cried. “She was there, and she didn’t want me, and I grabbed my belt on the bed and I…” He looked down, then back up, eyes haunted. “It was an accident.” His voice was broken now.  
  
“I know it was,” John whispered. “I know, Alec.”  
  
His eyes flashed again, suddenly, in that gleaming way reminiscent of his brother’s eyes. “Vincent,” he hissed. “He deserves to go to prison, not me. This is all his fault. So I brought Kat back here, put her in the water. So when you find her you’ll arrest him… He’s the one. It’s all his fault.”  
  
“Alec, what Vincent did to Katrina is despicable,” John said quietly. “But why did you beat him? He was in custody, you didn’t need to do that.”  
  
“He deserved it,” Alec breathed. “I didn’t do anything wrong.” He looked straight at John then, eyes wide as if he had just noticed he was not alone. “You’re coming to arrest me, but it’s Vincent you want. You can’t arrest me!”  
  
“Alec,“ John began, worried at the sudden shift. “Wait-“  
  
But Alec raised the gun again suddenly, bending it toward himself, and John staggered as a gun went off. Alec gave a cry and fell, clutching at his shoulder. John looked over at Lestrade, who was lowering his freshly-fired gun.  
  
“Nice shot,” John said weakly, feeling his heart pounding rather painfully.  
  
“And nice… whatever that was you did just there,” Lestrade replied, sounding just as shaken as John felt.  
  
Alec, meanwhile, had curled into the fetal position. John heard him whispering something, like a mantra. “It’s _his_ fault, it’s _his_ fault, it’s _his_ fault…” John wasn’t sure if Alec meant himself or Vincent.  
  
As Lestrade moved to handcuff Alec, and as sirens arrived in the street, John dropped to his knees next to Sherlock and felt for a pulse. “Sherlock,” he whispered. “Come on, wake up…”  
  
His flatmate didn’t move, and with the blood across his face, John felt a jolt of fear. His pale skin made him look dead…  
  
“Sherlock,” he tried again, his voice breaking just slightly. “Don’t do this, come on, wake up. Please, for me, just… wake up.”  
  
Sherlock gave a soft cough in response. John sighed in relief and rolled him over and into his own lap, careful to hold his head as still as he could. A moment later, Sherlock’s eyes flickered open. “Alright,” he said hoarsely. “But only for you, John.”  
  
John chuckled slightly, feeling his heartbeat start to settle down now that Sherlock was conscious again. Sherlock gave him a small smile. “Can you sit up?” John asked, pressing a hand to the bloody spot on Sherlock’s temple. He realized it had run down from a blow on the back of his head.  
  
“Maybe not yet,” Sherlock grimaced. “He surprised me.”  
  
“Yeah, I gathered.” John glanced up as the other officers of Scotland Yard entered and swarmed the room. When he looked back down and found Sherlock still looking at him.  
  
“That was impressive,” he murmured. “Coaxing the truth out of a clearly-unstable opponent like that. I heard bits at the end there.”  
  
John smiled wider. “Nothing you wouldn’t have been able to do in half that time.”  
  
“Still, it was an admirable job, John.”  
  
“Too bad you probably won’t remember this once your concussion is healed. You aren’t going to believe you complimented me,” John said dryly, dragging another smile from Sherlock.  
  
“What makes you think I have a concussion?” he smirked.  
  
John raised his eyebrows. “Because I’m the doctor here, and you aren’t.”

 

* * *

  
  
It took a few minutes, but once John cleaned up Sherlock’s cut, the consulting detective managed to stand without too much dizziness. Unfortunately, standing still wasn’t the best thing for his health at the moment.  
  
“Where do you think you’re going?” John asked, grabbing Sherlock’s arm as he tried to get up out of the back of the ambulance. “You aren’t getting up yet.”  
  
“Clearly I am.”  
  
John rolled his eyes and let himself be dragged back toward Vincent’s flat. Alec had been taken into custody and driven off a few minutes before, and John had filled Sherlock in on Vincent’s revelation and the bits of Alec’s confession Sherlock had been unconscious for.  
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
“Going to find Maggie. I wasn’t able to search the whole place before Alec arrived.”  
  
“Well, slow down before you fall and make your head worse.” John tugged him back as he started to get too far ahead. “I won’t let you get hurt again on my watch.”  
  
Sherlock huffed dramatically but allowed John to dictate his walking pace. Together, they checked each room, calling for Maggie every few seconds. John felt nervous; he still thought they were too late for her, but Sherlock didn’t know that. He hated to see how he would react if they didn’t find her.  
  
They had checked each room in a matter of minutes, and John caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s heartbreakingly lost expression. “But where is she?” he asked, as if John was hiding her behind his back.  
  
“I don’t know,” he replied, hating himself for failing them both.  
  
“But she has to be here,” Sherlock whispered. “John…?”  
  
John looked down, not wanting to see that broken look in Sherlock’s eyes any longer. They stood there, silent, for several seconds, neither wanting to leave without Maggie. Then, just as John was bracing himself to pull Sherlock out of there and drag him home, a faint scratching made him freeze. He whirled and came face to face with a closet door. They had looked there, but he could have sworn he heard something…  
  
He yanked the door open, Sherlock right at his side. He pulled away brooms and mops and there it was. A door, probably leading to a basement. And again, a faint, weak scratching. John scrambled to unlatch the lock and open the secret door. It swung open with a quiet creak.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock was pacing back and forth in the front room of the animal shelter. Despite all of John’s scolding and pleading that he sit down, he had refused, so John just gave up and watched.  
  
They had rushed Maggie out of Vincent’s flat straight to the nearest animal shelter. Lestrade had almost stopped them, but one glance at the wounded dog in John’s arms had silenced any protests. John assumed he would come see them the next day for their statements.  
  
Alec had been taken to the hospital to have his shoulder treated, though not to Bart’s, where Vincent was. John didn’t know what was going to happen to him, but it couldn’t be good. It was clear to him that the man had been mentally unstable during the confrontation, though he wondered if he had always been like that, and if his allegations of Vincent’s abuse would be taken seriously at all.  
  
“He might get off,” Sherlock murmured suddenly. John looked up, frowning.  
  
“Who might?”  
  
“Vincent. Considering the circumstances. Considering he was beaten by the real murderer.” His countenance was fierce-looking as he contemplated this.  
  
“But are we even sure if Alec really did kill Katrina? All we have is his word, and I’m not sure how trustworthy it is.”  
  
“He clearly had a mental break, approximately around the time of the murder. He had fallen in love with the woman he went into hiding to protect, and her rejection of him was too much for him to bear. It seems he thought her death would be easier to bear than her living with his brother. I have no doubt that Alec is the murderer.”  
  
“But why would Katrina want to stay with Vincent? If he really did abuse her?”  
  
“Often victims will protect their abusers,” Sherlock scowled. “They feel they are the ones in the wrong and so are defensive of whoever is hurting them. And I am inclined to think that Alec was right; Vincent was abusing her. The physical evidence is there on Katrina’s body, and the fact that he mistreated Maggie as well is a strong indicator he was capable of spousal abuse as well.”  
  
“So did Alec have a history of mental instability?”  
  
Sherlock pressed his lips together. “I didn’t exactly read his profile in that case file closely.”  
  
“Neither did I. We saw what we expected to see, I guess.”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock nodded ruefully.  
  
“Not our best case.”  
  
“We _did_ find a killer, solve a seven year old disappearance, and rescue a small dog from an abusive home. It was not our worst case either.”  
  
John had to concede that. “True.” He paused, thinking for a moment. “So why did Alec beat Vincent like that? Sure, he had a mental break and killed Katrina in a betrayed rage, but why would he go to the trouble of sneaking into Scotland Yard to beat his brother a week later? Surely he would know we would question Vincent and he would tell us who beat him afterward?”  
  
“I think it is safe to say that Alec was beyond rational thought at that point. And you won’t know this because you slept, but Katrina’s murder was on the news last night. Few details, but they did announce her identity. If Alec saw that story, it could have set him off. Vincent had not been brought to justice yet, and he would have been impatient to get revenge fully. To him, I am sure risking getting arrested for trespassing was a small price to pay to face his brother once again.”  
  
“Why was he even still in London though? He dumped the body here to frame Vincent, but why stick around after that? I’d be getting out of the country if I was him.”  
  
“Ah, but you aren’t insane, John,” Sherlock almost smiled. “Alec was fixated on getting Vincent convicted for the murder, and in his maddened state he stayed to see it through directly.”  
  
John considered that, nodding. “Alright, I’ll buy that explanation. Though I still think Vincent ought to get some sort of punishment.”  
  
“He will once I’m finished with him,” Sherlock said in a rather dangerous tone. John raised his eyebrows at him, causing an eye roll. “He obviously mistreated Maggie, an action for which there will be consequences. And there is now solid evidence that he also abused Katrina, due to Alec’s allegations. While Vincent may not have been guilty of her murder like we thought, but he still is not a good do-er.”  
  
John smirked. “Don’t you mean do-gooder?”  
  
“What?” Sherlock asked blankly.  
  
“Never mind,” John chuckled. “Will you please sit down now? You got a minor concussion less than an hour ago.”  
  
“And it is, as you just said, minor. You already examined me at Vincent’s flat for symptoms of a worse one. I am fine.”  
  
“It would give me some peace of mind.”  
  
Sherlock paused in his pacing to look at him. Apparently something in John’s face got to him, because he huffed dramatically and dropped into the chair next to him. “Fine.”  
  
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”  
  
Sherlock looked at him askance. “Don’t push it.”  
  
There was a pause, then John turned to him. “I’m sorry, by the way.”  
  
“For what?” Sherlock looked blank.  
  
“For doubting you. I shouldn’t have said those things.”  
  
Sherlock scoffed. “You’re sorry? Even though I wasn’t exactly right? Even though Vincent didn’t kill Katrina? Seems an unnecessary apology under the circumstances.”  
  
“I’m sorry because I know I hurt your feelings.” John shifted uncomfortably. “I wish I could take back what I said.”  
  
Sherlock looked at him squarely now, a tacit understanding passing between them. One corner of his lips pulled up. “Don’t worry John, I’m too easily bored to hold a grudge.”  
  
John smiled faintly, grateful they were alright again. They fell into silence, both watching the door behind which the veterinarian had taken Maggie upon John and Sherlock’s arrival at the shelter. There was the muffled sound of dogs yapping, cats mewing, and claws skittering across floors behind it, but not the distinctive yipping of their Maggie. She had made no sound or motion the entire cab ride, had barely acknowledged their presence. It worried John immeasurably; she had only been away from them for a couple days, and the change that had been wrought in her in such a short time was astounding.  
  
“Do you think she’ll be alright?” John asked, voice coming out rather small.  
  
Sherlock glanced at him, then sighed. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “She is so small and young…”  
  
He looked away, but not before John saw that vulnerable face again, the face he had shown John when he’d told him about Redbeard. He looked more like a child suddenly, somehow smaller than usual, eyes fixed on the door with an odd kind of broken hope. John had an abrupt, striking vision of a much younger Sherlock, just as curly-haired and stubborn as he was now, in a similar animal shelter waiting for news about Redbeard. This was the second time he had had to do this for a wounded dog, and the gravity of that fell heavily onto John’s shoulders. Sherlock cared for few things, so losing one – perhaps two, depending on how Maggie was – had to be agonizing.  
  
John felt the urge to say something to him, to comfort him, but what did you say to someone when their puppy was dying?  
  
“Hey,” he tried anyway, laying a hand tentatively on Sherlock’s shoulder. “We did a good thing, you know. We got her out of there, like you said earlier.”  
  
“But for what?” Sherlock asked. “So she can go to live in a happy valley somewhere, in the sky?”  
  
John winced. Sherlock glanced over at him, pain almost palpable in his expression. “We won’t give up on her,” John said. “We won’t let her give up.”  
  
Sherlock made a sound a bit like dissent and turned his gaze back to the door. “I believed that, you know.”  
  
“Believed what?” John moved his hand back to the arm of the chair as Sherlock shifted.  
  
“That Redbeard was in some happy, bright, better place,” he explained bitterly. “You know, after I utterly failed to save him.”  
  
John stared at him for a moment, wishing there was some way he could go back in time, just to save Redbeard and bring him here to Sherlock. “You did save him,” he murmured. “You gave him somewhere safe to get away from his master at nights, then ultimately you got him away from there altogether.”  
  
“No, _ultimately_ he died.”  
  
“But he died in a place he felt safe, and he died with you there to comfort him. You didn’t fail him Sherlock, you gave him what every dog deserves.”  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“Someone to love them.”  
  
And when Sherlock looked back at him, some of the turmoil had faded from his eyes.  


 

* * *

  
  
At the end of a long line of cages against the wall, Maggie waited. She was curled up on a large squashy cushion, still unmoving. John and Sherlock knelt next to her, both simultaneously trying to reach her through the thin bars.  
  
Her ribs were visible, but then, they had been like that when she had stayed with them in 221B. Still, there was now a sickly feeling clinging to her. The blood that had been matted on her fur when John had picked her up out of that basement was gone, washed away. A cut had apparently caused that, for there was now a clean white bandage in place of the blood. She had a cast on her back leg, its bulk making her look even smaller.  
  
“Malnourished,” Sherlock said almost absentmindedly; it was as if he was unaware of speaking aloud. “Weak. Dehydrated.” His long slender fingers reached out and managed to reach her tail, petting it gently.  
  
“Maggie,” John called softly. “You’re okay now, sweetheart. We’re going to take care of you.”  
  
Her eyes moved at the sound of their voices, looking at them with weakly pleading brown eyes. John felt his heart break at the sight.  
  
He looked up at the veterinarian. “Can we take her home?”  
  
She gave him a rueful look. “I can’t allow you to take her, actually. The abuse she sustained needs to be reported, and then there will be an investigation. It is likely she’ll be kept here until a suitable home is found for her.”  
  
Sherlock looked up. “Why can’t we take her? We saved her.”  
  
“I’m sorry, you would still have to go through the process of adoption.”  
  
“But she knows us,” Sherlock protested.  
  
She looked sympathetic, but still firm. “I am aware of that, but it is out of my control. You can visit her tonight, however. For now she needs rest.”  
  
John nodded, cutting off Sherlock with a look. “Thank you.”  


 

* * *

  
  
It was an interesting process, dragging Sherlock out of the animal shelter. But John was determined the man get some sleep, considering he hadn’t had any for approximately two days. He knew they both would probably have several long nights ahead due to their worry for Maggie, so he knew getting rest now was imperative. Still, just because the decision was logical did not mean Sherlock wanted to go along with it. He insisted that he was going to stay to keep an eye on Maggie, and it took a lot of arguing for Sherlock to finally give up. John thought it might be because he was still slightly dizzy from the mild concussion and secretly needed to sleep. Not that Sherlock would ever admit that, of course.  
  
The cab ride home confirmed John’s suspicions, but it also came with a surprise. Sherlock did indeed drift off to sleep within a few minutes of leaving the shelter, to John’s relief. However, then his head ended up resting against John’s shoulder. John toyed with the idea of pushing him off, but eventually decided against it. It wasn’t worth Sherlock snapping at him.  
  
Back at 221B, unfortunately, Sherlock flat-out refused to sleep. Having been woken to get out of the cab, he became grumpy and stubborn. So John sighed and did his best to nap on the sofa while Sherlock resumed his restless pacing around the sitting room. Eventually, though, worry about Maggie and the outcome of the case overruled both his desire and his ability to sleep, and he sat up with a yawn.  
  
“Can we go back yet?” were Sherlock’s first words to him.  
  
“No,” John sighed, his head in his hands. “We’ll go back later, after we’ve had something to eat.”  
  
“I don’t see why we can’t take her home. You’re a doctor. Can’t you take care of her?”  
  
“Sherlock, we have to get her healthy, and then we have to do this right. There are protocols we have to follow for this sort of thing. Besides, I treat people, not animals. I don’t know how to care for an abused, starved puppy. I must have missed that class in medical school.”  
  
“Serves you right for skipping class.”  
  
John rolled his eyes. Before he could retort, however, Sherlock’s phone rang. “Hello?”  
  
John stood and waited apprehensively. He hoped it wasn’t the animal shelter. If something had happened to Maggie…  
  
“He did?” Sherlock asked. John sighed. So it must be about one of the Prescotts. That meant nothing had changed with Maggie yet, which, while not exactly a good thing, was at least not a bad thing.  
  
Sherlock’s half of the conversation was difficult to follow since John couldn’t hear the other end, so he sat down in his armchair and opened his laptop. He’d been meaning to do some research for a few days, but had for some reason never gotten around to it. He’d just blame Sherlock.  
  
“Right, thank you Inspector,” Sherlock sounded slightly exasperated. “Goodbye.”  
  
“What did he say?” John asked, looking up.  
  
“Alec has most definitely had a mental breakdown, and Vincent is refusing to talk. He won’t admit to the abuse of either Katrina or Maggie.”  
  
John sighed, now understanding the exasperation. “You’re kidding.” Sherlock shook his head. “Well,” John mused. “He never said it outright to me when I spoke to him in the hospital either, so I guess I can’t be too surprised.”  
  
“But Alec’s confession should at least have him worried. Then again, if Alec’s mental instability throws what he said into doubt…”  
  
“Well, Lestrade can work on convicting Vincent of the abuse and dealing with Alec. That’s his job.”  
  
“It’s ours as well, John,” Sherlock said earnestly.  
  
“Sherlock, as much as I want Vincent and Alec to have to answer for what they did, I’m more worried about what is going to happen to Maggie right now. I’m surprised you aren’t feeling the same way.”  
  
Sherlock glanced away. “I’m distracting myself,” he muttered.  
  
“Well, look, I’ve done some cursory research,” John said after a pause. “I think we should be able to keep her. We’ll have to fill out paperwork and such, but I don’t see why we won’t be allowed to bring her home.”  
  
“And how long will this insipid process take?”  
  
“As long as it takes,” John replied in a long-suffering way. “Also, we can always report Vincent for dog abuse. He could be fined, or even go to prison.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes lit up with their familiar fire. “Let me see that,” he said, unceremoniously snatching the laptop off of John’s legs. He scanned the page John had been reading, then smiled.  
  
“Let’s hope those investigating this are not complete imbeciles.”  


 

* * *

  
  
That evening at the animal shelter, the first thing John noticed when they got back to Maggie’s cage was that she had moved from where they had last seen her. She was laying down still, her paws just touching the bars of the cage. But this time, her head lifted when she saw them. John also noticed a bowl of water, and more importantly, another bowl with only a few bits of food left in the bottom; good, she had eaten then.  
  
“Maggie,” Sherlock greeted, a grin lighting up his features. John couldn’t help but smile as well, at Sherlock and Maggie equally.  
  
She still looked weak and tired and a bit pitiful, John thought, but the sound of her tail lightly thumping against the floor changed things. It sounded like _I’m going to be okay_.  
  
It sounded like hope.


	11. Chapter 11

_One month later…_  
  
John was in the kitchen washing dishes, trying to tamp down his anticipation. He nearly exploded when he finally heard the front door open; he looked up and dropped everything, excitement flooding through him. There was the soft murmur of Sherlock’s baritone and footsteps on the stairs, then the door leading from the landing opened.  
  
“Maggie,” John grinned and strode toward his flatmate, but more importantly, toward the puppy he had brought with him.  
  
She was nestled comfortably in Sherlock’s arms, and the moment she saw John her tail started wagging frantically. Sherlock nearly dropped her once she started squirming and whining, trying to get to John. He and John shook their heads at each other and knelt in unison. John scanned her quickly, looking for problems, as he had gotten in the habit of doing. Her leg was still in a cast, and it would be two or three weeks before it could be removed. Other than that, she looked perfect. And now she was finally home. Permanently.  
  
“Welcome home, little one,” John said with a laugh as she launched herself at him, her tiny tongue flicking out at every bit of him she could reach. She was nearly shivering from excitement, and he pulled her into his lap so she could get to him more easily. He petted her fur, glad it was smooth and unmarked with wounds at last.  
  
“Welcome home indeed,” Sherlock said. “Finally.”  
  
“You aren’t still angry about all that, are you? They had to investigate Vincent, and then make sure we’d be suitable dog owners.”  
  
“Yes they did, meanwhile, Maggie was alone in a cage at an animal shelter she had never seen before, with people she didn’t know.”  
  
“Oh, stop being like that. She was hardly alone, we visited her every day. Plus, she had to heal, and now she has. All is well,” he grinned at her, rubbing behind her ears vigorously.  
  
“Aside from the trauma she probably suffered from the hands of Vincent,” Sherlock muttered.  
  
“Look, you need to let it go,” John sighed as Sherlock stood and headed toward his armchair. “I’m sure we’ll find out the results of that investigation soon. Besides, we’re here to show her that not all men are like that.”  
  
“Still,” Sherlock scowled. “I would think those idiots would have made a decision by now.”  
  
John stood and sprawled on the sofa, ignoring Sherlock’s complaints and grumping about, deciding that watching Maggie instead was a much better use of his time. He could no longer see her ribs, and she had even grown a bit over the past month. Before, her growth had been delayed slightly due to lack of nourishment, but that was no longer the case. She was just as stubborn as Sherlock, so after about three days there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that she would recover. She looked less like a puppy now, though she was still quite young-looking and small in size. John reckoned she always would be, and even considered that she was the runt of her litter. With a smile, he watched her make her waddling way to her dog bed, awkwardly lifting her cast with a repeated little _scrape-thump_ to get there. She flopped down on it, gnawing on the chew toy she had scooped up on the way, and with her wagging tail she looked like the very picture of contentment.  
  
Which was the exact opposite of how Sherlock looked at the moment. John glanced over and rolled his eyes. He had been dealing with a higher level of general stubbornness from his flatmate ever since they had reported Vincent for animal abuse. John could only conclude that it was Sherlock desiring closure for the whole situation; he seemed be to acting as if Maggie would never be free of Vincent until her former master had received some sort of punishment for the awful things he had done to her.  
  
Not that John blamed him for thinking that way. Even Redbeard had gotten closure, and it was indeed hard to move on with Vincent’s shadow still hanging over them. What if he got off? Surely that wouldn’t happen, considering the well-documented allegations John and Sherlock had brought forward. Not to mention the additional claims of spousal abuse from the police. Surely he would be convicted of at least something…  
  
While they waited on tenterhooks about Vincent’s fate, Sherlock had taken almost every private case brought to him, even some John had been certain he would reject as mundane. He just needed distractions, evidently, especially since they had not officially adopted Maggie at that point. All they had been allowed to do was visit, which they did every day. John had accompanied him on most of these cases, glad to see that Sherlock was acting normal (for him) during them, his intensity quiet and focused rather than fiery and volatile, as it had been during Maggie and Katrina’s case. He gradually went back to almost normal (for him) by the time Maggie was allowed to come home. All he needed was the result of the investigation, John thought, to stabilize.  
  
As if the universe had heard his thoughts, the doorbell – recently replaced, since the last one had met its maker due to sulfuric acid – rang. Maggie’s head popped up inquisitively as Sherlock stood and went to see who was there. John waited, sitting up. Probably another case.  
  
It was actually Lestrade, who took a chair after a nod in greeting to John. Maggie made a muted bark at him and headed toward him in her ungainly way, sniffing cautiously. John was encouraged by this; she didn’t seem afraid of someone John and Sherlock let in willingly, which was good.  
  
“So why are you here, Inspector?” Sherlock asked as he reclaimed his armchair.  
  
“Vincent Prescott,” he said, giving a slight smile when Sherlock visibly jolted at the name.  
  
“And?” he demanded at the same time John asked, “What about him?”  
  
“His animal abuse case workers have found him guilty. I think he’s going to be fined a pretty good amount of money.”  
  
“And his spousal abuse case?” Sherlock prompted.  
  
“And what about Alec?” John added. “All you’ve said before is that they’re considering the circumstances, and basically nothing about this has been publicized.”  
  
“Alec has diminished mental capacity and had a breakdown,” Lestrade said, turning to him. “He might get off completely because of that, or he could still get some sort of reduced sentence.”  
  
“What about guilty but insane?” Sherlock asked, irked.  
  
“That’s a rather outdated term, technically. Look no matter what, there are going to be some kind of consequences for him. That I can nearly guarantee.”  
  
“Good,” Sherlock said, though he sounded less than enthusiastic about the whole thing. “What about Vincent?”  
  
“If he’s found guilty for spousal abuse he’ll likely serve time. That and the animal abuse…” Lestrade shrugged. “He’s going to be found guilty for abusing Katrina, I’m sure.”  
  
“Lestrade, did you come here with any solid answers, or just your own uninformed conjectures?” Sherlock snapped. “All you’ve really said is what you think is going to happen.”  
  
“Sherlock, I’m telling you he was found guilty for abusing your dog! And that he _will_ face consequences for everything he did to his wife and Alec as well.”  
  
Sherlock considered all this for a moment, and John watched with faint surprise as the anger and anxiety in his eyes started to clear. Somehow he was accepting of this situation.  
  
“Thanks Greg,” John said. “We’ve been rather edgy about all this.”  
  
“Sure thing,” he replied with an uneasy look down at his feet, where Maggie had curled up and was dozing off. John bit back a grin as Lestrade shifted in his seat, obviously uncomfortable. He hadn’t known the DI was afraid of dogs. It was especially amusing because Maggie was so small and harmless…  
  
“Well, I’d better be off,” Lestrade announced, standing and carefully side-stepping the sleepy puppy. “I just thought you’d like to know where things stand.”  
  
“We appreciate it,” John stood and clapped him on the back. “See you soon.”  
  
The DI left, and Sherlock and John looked at each other for a moment, relieved they had finally gotten news. Sherlock’s gaze soon turned thoughtful, and John smiled. “What are you thinking about?” he asked.  
  
“About Alec. His story is really rather tragic.”  
  
John raised his eyebrows at the unexpected empathy. “He murdered someone. He may be sort of mad, but he still killed Katrina.”  
  
“But before that he gave up his entire life to protect her. He left London and everything else behind and went into hiding in order to keep her somewhat safe. If he’d stayed and continued demanding Vincent stop hurting her, it is likely Katrina would have died much sooner. Then he spent years keeping in contact with her clandestinely to ensure she was alright to some extent.”  
  
“That doesn’t make up for what he did to her,” John said.  
  
“Perhaps not, but still the fact remains that he essentially faked his death to protect her.”  
  
John nodded, mulling that over. “Do you think you could ever do something like that for someone?”  
  
When he looked up, Sherlock was staring at him with a rather alarming amount of intensity. “I… believe I am far too selfish to do such a thing, John. Though hopefully we will never have to find out whether or not I could muster the selflessness.”  
  
John smiled. “Yeah, let’s hope not.”  
  
There was a pause. John wondered if he could do that, give up everything. Who was so important to him that he would be willing to abandon everything else in order to protect them? The answer to that question came instantly, of course. Still, the idea of doing it for _anyone_ was daunting, even for Sherlock. And he couldn’t imagine Sherlock doing that for him in return…  
  
To lighten things, John grinned, glancing down at Maggie. “Also, since when is Greg afraid of dogs?” he asked.  
  
“Since always. Though I’m slightly surprised you noticed just now,” Sherlock smirked.  
  
“Hey, I’m not _awful_ at deductions!” John protested, sitting back on the sofa. Sherlock shook his head in amusement and started to head toward his bedroom, where they had decided would be a better place for his science equipment now that they had Maggie officially. John watched him go, wondering at the oddly calm reaction his flatmate had had to the uncertain fate of the Prescotts.  
  
“Hey Sherlock?” he called. Sherlock paused halfway down the hall and spun around. John lifted Maggie off the floor onto his lap, where she promptly curled up comfortably. John looked up uncertainly at Sherlock.  
  
“What?” Sherlock prompted, a slight frown creasing his forehead.  
  
“Are you okay with this not knowing? After all, we don’t know what’s going to happen to them. Vincent might not even get any prison time after everything we did to prove he hurt Katrina. I know you wanted justice for the things he did, and you reacted strangely to what Lestrade said…”  
  
Sherlock’s gaze left John’s and dropped to rest on Maggie, curled up and peaceful on top of John. “I did want justice. But… we saved her. That’s enough.”  
  
Something in his eyes made John believe him. He was right; it was enough.


	12. Chapter 12

_One month later…_  
  
Life at Baker Street had always been full of unusual activity, or at least it had been since the consulting detective and his blogger had moved in. The neighbors were frequently disturbed by strange noises or odors (from _someone’s_ experiments having gone awry), or were startled by boredom-induced gunshots, or were jerked awake at three in the morning by screeching violin “music.” Then there were the arguments, and the giggling, and the adrenaline from a chase.  
  
The unusual activity that had been seen inside 221B Baker Street had only begun, it seemed. Once the photos of a violent man’s mug shots appeared stapled to a recently-closed case file, and a small puppy came to live there, a whole new set of disturbances commenced. Barking and the sounds of small paws skittering across the floor, bickering about whose turn it was to take the dog out, and bouncing balls down the corridors became the norm.  
  
It turned out that Maggie was quite a resilient creature; once it was clear that she would be alright and that John had agreed to her living here (as if he would have refused), Sherlock had once again launched into showering her with toys and all manner of dog-pampering essentials. However, it turned out she was just as easily bored as Sherlock. Many a mishap resulted, for example…  
  
“Sherlock,” John called out one evening, choking back laughter. “Come get this off of your poor trapped dog!”  
  
“What?” Sherlock asked blankly, looking up from his laptop at his breathless flatmate. They were both sitting on the sofa, though in the moment Sherlock looked as if he would rather be away from his suddenly and inexplicably giggling friend. When he shifted his gaze to Maggie, though, he bit back a surprised smile of his own.  
  
The puppy had staggered into the room with a cross expression on her normally sweet face. A plastic clothes hanger was stuck around her middle, and one paw was stuck in it as well, so she was forced to walk – or rather, hobble – on three legs. She looked from John to Sherlock with a look that clearly said, _I don’t know what or how this happened but get this monster off me. Now._  
  
Sherlock bent down as she approached him and gently extracted her from the hanger, chuckling. She made a huff sound and trotted away with her tail between her legs, looking highly embarrassed as she hurried to her bed.  
  
“How on earth does she even get in those situations?” John was still laughing softly. “Last week she got a cup stuck on her head, and I have yet to figure out where she got it. I’ve never seen it before in my entire life. And the week before that, she was on top of my dresser chewing on my best tie!”  
  
Sherlock grinned. “I’ve no idea how she accomplishes what she does. But why do _I_ always have to be the one to rescue her from whatever she’s gotten into? Can’t you do it yourself?”  
  
“She’s _your_ dog,” John shrugged. Sherlock was the one who had brought her home in the first place, after all. He had started it.  
  
“She is not,” Sherlock scoffed, though he was still watching her with an affectionate look, one that John was still unused to. Gentler-Sherlock was still new to him. “She’s _yours_.”  
  
“What?” John shook his head. “I didn’t even want her at first. I was just helping you take care of her until we found her owner.”  
  
“And see how well that turned out.”  
  
“Why do we even give her a label anyway?” John smirked at the frustrated glint in Sherlock’s eyes. “We could just call her _the_ dog, not even bother with ‘your dog’ or ‘my dog.’”  
  
“Fine,” Sherlock threw his hands up in exasperation. “She’s _our_ dog! Is that acceptable to you?”  
  
John smirked. “Yeah.” He leaned over and caught sight of Maggie’s name on Sherlock’s laptop. “What are you doing?”  
  
“I was simply curious about her name, and why the Prescotts chose it. Did you know it means ‘pearl?’”  
  
“I did not. Or maybe she was named after a famous Maggie.”  
  
“Like who?”  
  
“Oh, you know, Margaret Thatcher, or Maggie Simpson… Ooh, or Maggie Smith!”  
  
“I have no idea who any of those women are.” Sherlock looked bewildered.  
  
John laughed again. “Of course you don’t. I really need to educate you on… well, everything.”  
  
Now Sherlock looked slightly offended. “Don’t tell me this has to do with the rubbish solar system again! I thought I told you it is utterly irrelevant!”  
  
But John wasn’t listening; he was laughing too hard again. “Well I bet you anything she was named after Maggie Smith.”  
  
Sherlock just shook his head and turned back to his laptop, muttering something about “baffling flatmates” and the “stupid solar system.” He looked cross, but that expression quickly faded when Maggie trotted over to him and leaped into his lap. He bit back a smile, glancing at John as if to make sure his sentimental countenance was going unnoticed, then pulled her closer and smoothed down her soft fur, rubbing behind her floppy ear. John just smiled and pretended he didn’t see.  
  
Within the next few days, yet another item appeared in the flat for Maggie, joining the dog dishes, bed, dozens of toys and treats, and leashes. For once, however, Sherlock had quite willingly gone to a store to purchase it (most likely because he knew it would annoy John: “People already talk enough, Sherlock!”). It was a silver dog tag, shaped like a bone. Engraved on it were the words…  
  
_Maggie Watson-Holmes_  
_If found, return to 221B Baker St._

FIN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So domestic, I know. Hope you enjoyed, lovely reader! ~ SAF


End file.
